


The Teenage Vigilante Witch of Beacon Hills

by TricksterShi



Series: Home Across the Universe [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Magic, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Stilinski Family Feels, Tattooed Stiles Stilinski, Vigilantism, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:35:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27109612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TricksterShi/pseuds/TricksterShi
Summary: Stiles wasn't meant to be the last one standing.  But here he is, the last of his pack, the last of his family, stranded in another universe where the Hale fire never happened and his alternate world self is nine years old.There is no impending supernatural doom to guard against but there are plenty of mundane, human dangers lurking in Beacon Hills.  Stiles has the power to do something about them.  Muggers and drug dealers aren't werewolves or kanimas but they're still deadly and he has years of war lurking under his skin just itching for a cause to champion. And given that he technically doesn't exist he has the time, means, and opportunity to make this one town safer for the people living in it.  Like his dad.  Like his other self.  Like the child versions of everyone he's lost.But Stiles isn't a superhero.  He's not even superhuman and the magic he knows isn't enough to keep him hidden in the shadows forever.  Especially with Deputy John Stilinski working to unmask Beacon Hill's protector.
Relationships: Sheriff Stilinski & Stiles Stilinski
Series: Home Across the Universe [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1978774
Comments: 19
Kudos: 183





	1. Not in Kansas Anymore

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings for descriptions of panic attacks and a brief scene of suicidal ideation. Also for descriptions of injuries, scars, and flashbacks of captivity. This poor kid, I swear I put him through the wringer. This work is unbetad so all mistakes are mine, I also tend to handwave canon when it suits me, so neither universe is completely in line with the show. 
> 
> Like Ron Swanson, I have a permit to do what I want.

Stiles hit the earth with a terrible crash. He rolled ass over tea kettle until he finally stopped and stared up at the painfully blue sky and wheezed. Everything hurt. Nothing was okay. He still felt the ghost of his Dad's hug and he wanted to scream but he couldn’t even  _ breathe _ .

Stiles struggled up after a while. He was still bleeding, albeit sluggishly, and he needed to hide. It was a visceral, cloying, nerves on fire kind of need that drove animals insane and Stiles had already been dancing that line for a while. It was too big under the sky, too open among the trees of the preserve. His first instinct was to go home. To lock himself in his room and throw about fifty wards up on the walls before pulling a blanket over his head.

Home didn’t exist anymore. It might be still standing, though. Windows blown out, doors left open, or completely ripped from their hinges. He could make that work. He could. At least long enough to take stock, make a plan, figure things out.

He had to figure something out.

Stiles turned over and got his knees under him. He could crawl. So he did. All the way to a tree and used the low hanging branches to pull himself upright. Great. He was vertical. Ish. Now to be a competent bi-pedal and stay upright. Upright was key.

From there it was moment by moment. One foot in front of the other. Stiles used the sun and pointed his body towards Beacon Hills. He didn’t think of anything behind him. 

Time slipped away. But he made it out. Made it to the highway and followed it back into town. At first, he thought it was the trauma and sleep deprivation. A car passed him and turned the corner. Stiles shook his head and kept going. Hallucinations were not good but he’d been dealing with them for a few days. Then a second car passed by. Then he came upon a house with kids playing out front.

Stiles stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and stared until one of the kids pointed and said something. 

“Get a grip,” he whispered and rubbed at his eyes. But the kids were still there when he opened them again. 

Stiles moved on, heart in his throat. The farther into Beacon Hills he got the more life he saw. People out buying groceries or mowing their lawns or walking their dogs. They were living,  _ being _ , as if everything of the last six months (or three years) hadn’t happened. Like they didn’t even  _ know _ .

Then he hit the main shopping strip and his heart almost stopped in his chest. The Jumping Bean Coffee House was gone. Not gone-gone like when the town imploded but gone in that it was a clothing boutique Stiles had never seen before. Other details filtered across his brain.

The vehicles were all far older than they should have been by about at least eight years or so. People had cell phones but, again, older models. The other businesses were also only about half right; Stiles was sure there had never been a comic shop named Epica, only the Comic Adventure Shop on 4th Street. And Melvin’s Convenience was now a small pharmacy.

Like looking through a broken kaleidoscope, this was Beacon Hills but it wasn’t. It wasn’t Stiles’s Beacon Hills which meant--

“Deaton, you son of a bitch.”

Stiles was getting some concerning looks so he ducked into an alley and hid behind a dumpster. He bit his lip and pulled up his shirt to look at the tattoo on his side.

It was gone, covered. Like a blackened starburst, all the ink-bound magic burned out of his skin. He touched it and hissed at the deep twinge of pain that stretched from one side of his body to the other.

It was the one tattoo he’d gotten that Dad had actually agreed with. Deaton had made a good case for it. A break-glass-in-case-of-emergencies kind of thing. A one time ticket to transport Stiles to safety if he truly needed it. Deaton never was too clear on the actual details. Enough vague allusions and Dad had been fine with it. Especially as things went to shit so thoroughly around them.

And Dad had sent Stiles away. Hoping he’d be okay. Thinking Stiles would end up far away from the cave the hunters had kept him prisoner in. That he’d regroup with anyone left alive.

He hadn’t known Stiles would end up in another time, much less another fucking  _ world. _

Stiles pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and willed the rising panic to go away. This was bad. What was he even supposed to do? He had no dad, no pack. Just a ton of small injuries, flagging magical reserves, and raw nerves screaming at the universe for what it just did.

Think. What did he need? Stiles’s hands shook as he pressed them to the building behind him. The rough brick prickled at his fingers. Think.

Stiles needed a shower. And a new change of clothing. Food wouldn't go amiss but he could make it a while longer without. And he needed somewhere to stay. Somewhere safe for at least a few hours.

There was...not a lot of options for the last one. He had no way of getting into the Hale vault and he only heard about the Argent bunker the others used throughout the Dread Doctors and the wild hunt debacles, never got the chance to go into it himself. 

The pull to go _ home _ was overwhelming. Probably not a good idea, though. If this was a different world then that home was occupied. Another dad. Another Stiles. Or they might not even exist in this world. It might be some other family living there. Stiles swallowed against a wave of nausea. No. He couldn’t go to a home that didn’t belong to him.

Deaton was no longer an option, either. Just, no. If he had to see that man, even though he wasn’t the same Deaton, Stiles would probably punch him and then throw up all over his shoes. Bastard.

That left only Derek-esque resorts. Like the abandoned train station or the loft. 

“I can’t believe I’m down to your modus operandi, Derek,” Stiles muttered to the empty alley. That was proof enough that things had gone from apocalyptic to whatever was worse on the other side of that. He was sure there was a word for it. Maybe. 

Stiles ventured to the end of the alley and got his bearings. He wasn’t that far from the loft. Maybe thirty minutes walking, possibly longer since it was daylight. The lack of shadows made his skin itch. Stiles would have laughed if it wouldn’t have fucked up his ribs worse than they already were.

So, get to the loft. Hide until dark. Come up with a plan. Stiles could do that. One step at a time.

It turned out to be a bit more complicated than that.

For one, this universe added three new streets in his usual way and Stiles spent over an hour figuring a way around it. For two, he caught a glimpse of his reflection and knew it was a miracle no one had sicced the cops on him. The hunters who had kept Stiles as bait for his pack hadn’t been too generous in the time they’d had him. He still wore the same clothes he’d been taken in. They were crusted with mud, blood, and a lot of other traumatic things Stiles couldn’t think about. The shirt sleeves were ripped from dad freeing him from the ropes which put his wrists and the deep ligature marks on display. His face was a mess of snot, tear tracks, faded bruises, and a gash in his hairline.

He looked, frankly, like a horror show escapee.

For three, there were far more people out and about on this side of town than there should have been. In Stiles’s world, the east side of town had been declining for years. Now there were more businesses and houses and people just going around where they shouldn’t be. Stiles had to stick to the alleys almost exclusively and wait for traffic to clear to cross streets and then he almost blundered into a drug deal.

An actual drug deal.

Stiles retreated behind another dumpster. An old fashioned drug deal. It was sad how quaint Stiles found that.

Less quaint was the sudden appearance of a sheriff’s department cruiser. It rolled up in front of the two delinquents and the buyer pulled a gun and flashed his own bade. Great. Stiles crouched down and checked the alley behind him. It was clear now but there was no cover for him to use to get out. They would see him if he moved and Stiles, well, he  _ could _ run if he had to but it wasn’t a good idea.

His only option was to sit and hide and wait. Hopefully, they were satisfied with taking the drug dealer without investigating further into the alley. 

Stiles counted his breaths and waited. The moments stretched into minutes. The murmur of voices drifted down the alley and flashing lights reflected off the walls. A couple of car doors slammed. Stiles almost sighed before he heard the telltale sound of footsteps coming towards him.

The panic Stiles had managed to push down reared its ugly head and the alley disappeared. Bars sprang up around him and his hands were tied tight above his head, the ropes swollen with water and cutting into his wrists. Boots fell heavy on the ground. They were coming back with more questions. More pain.

The pain never came. There was talking and then shouting. More boots coming closer. Panic bloomed in Stiles’s veins as someone touched his knee and then his shoulder. The hunters didn’t care about panic attacks. Usually, they just laughed.

Black spots crowded his vision and someone shook his shoulder. It was enough to send him over the edge and Stiles gladly welcomed the darkness.

  
  



	2. The Kid Is Not Okay

Stiles woke on a bed in a bright room. Hospital, his sluggish mind supplied, judging by the smell and the distorted sounds. Stiles grimaced at the cottonmouth he had going on. He was alone in the room. No werewolves staked out to offer up their wonderful pain relief. Not that Stiles was in much pain but there was a distinct difference between drugs and magic werewolf hands. Drugs made everything heavy, fuzzy.

Muffled voices caught his attention but Stiles only picked up bits on the conversation.

_ "..ligature marks, burns, malnutrition-" _

_ "...trafficked?" _

_ "...keep him overnight." _

An anxious tendril of panic pushed through the druggy haze. The pieces started to come back to him. The alley. The injuries. The hunters. Dad--

Stiles's body flinched and he opened his eyes. Everything was blurry and he blinked to clear them. The heart monitor went crazy and two people shaped blobs entered the room. They gradually sharpened into a nurse and a deputy.

"Easy now, you're all right, honey."

The burst of adrenaline faded almost as soon as it had come and Stiles slumped over. He was in a hospital gown, all his other clothes were gone. Probably for the best, he thought dimly. They were beyond salvage.

"--son? Hey, can you focus for me?"

Stiles stopped breathing as Dad’s face came into view. Dad was--Dad looked good. Younger. Less wrinkles.

Less dead.

“You need to breathe, okay? Come on, you’re okay here. You’re safe.”

Stiles had spent years obeying that voice through anxiety and panic attacks. This wasn’t his dad but he listened anyway.

“Why am I here?” he gasped when everything evened back out.

"We found you in an alley just off Fillmore Street. Do you remember what you were doing there?"

Stiles looked away from Dad-- no, from  _ John’s _ face and focused on the wall behind him. He needed a story. Something plausible but not the truth. He couldn’t think of a damn thing. Couldn’t think straight for shit and John’s eyes were too sharp, too perceptive, he’d smell the bullshit before Stiles even finished.

"No." Stiles squeezed his eyes shut and it was only half for show. The less he said the better, at least until the drugs were out of his system. He started to work on that.

"Alright, let’s start with something easy, then. What's your name?" John flipped open a small notepad and clicked a ballpoint pen. 

"Jimmy." 

The name came from out of the blue. This wasn’t his world. This world already had a Stiles, it couldn’t fit another. John was so close. He didn’t have the same weight on his shoulders that Stiles’s dad had had. Stiles had always wondered if he could somehow take that burden from his dad, what might he have been like?

Stiles had his answer right in front of him.

"Jimmy, good. What's your last name?"

Stiles shook his head. "Just Jimmy."

The less he said the better. He had to get out of the hospital and away from Da- from _John_. Away from anyone he used to know. They weren’t his.

"Jimmy, you're not in trouble. You're pretty banged up and you look lost. I'd like to help you."

Stiles scrubbed a hand over his face and grimaced at the dull pain from the bruises.

"There's nothing you can do," he says, truthful. John cannot send him home. There's not a home to return to.

John tries to ask him questions for a while. Where does he live? Where is his family? Does he remember arriving in Beacon Hills?

Stiles only shook his head and kept his mouth shut. John was getting more frustrated, more worried, but he stayed so damn gentle it was almost infuriating. 

“Whatever happened to you wasn’t okay, Jimmy. I hope you know that it wasn’t your fault, either.”

Stiles bit his lips to keep the contradiction inside.

John seemed to sense he wasn’t going to get anywhere so he told Stiles to get some sleep, handed him his card, and told him someone from CPS would be by to speak to him at some point.

The card burned in Stiles’s fingers. He couldn’t afford to be there when they arrived. John made to get up and Stiles’s hand shot out to grasp his arm.

Stiles wanted so badly to hug him. To be wrapped up in his dad’s arms again. Just once. 

“Thank you.” The words rasped out. “Thank you for--caring. Trying.”

John placed his hand on top of Stiles’s and squeezed. Close enough.

“I’m not done doing either, you can count on that.”

Once John left Stiles curled back in bed and worked on burning the rest of the drugs out of his system. It was a talent he’d never shared with anyone, mostly because of  _ how _ he learned it. It would have given his dad a heart attack and Scott would have cried and Derek would have gone on a murder spree. A legit one.

The upside to this skill was clear-headedness and closer to normal cognitive functions. The downside, besides the return of pain, was that Stiles couldn’t pick and choose which drugs he burned out. Painkillers, antibiotics, his magic burned them all away and he would need to replace both before he got too far to keep infection at bay.

The pain came back with a vengeance. Stiles took stock of it while he was still alone. Nothing broken but plenty of deep bruising and some healing infections. Also a general sensation of awfulness that came from being stuck in a cage and restrained for over a month. Stiles wasn't fit to fight anyone yet, or exert himself above an ambling stroll. But he’d heal. Now he just needed supplies and somewhere safe to do so.

Because CPS? So not happening. Stiles may have been slightly underage but he hadn’t been a child since well before Scott tangled with Peter. Stiles had buried more people than he cared to think about. He’d orchestrated justified killings, embraced magic, and helped hold together a ramshackle wolf pack made of traumatized teenagers, a devoted ex-sheriff, a morally gray banshee, a slightly unstable hellhound, and two former hunters. He was not a child. Pretending to be one, even here, would be too insulting to consider. It was like Pandora’s box. You couldn’t undo what had already been unleashed.

He had to keep moving forward.

That thought steeled his resolve. When the last of the painkillers were gone he snuck out of his room. The hospital, thank fuck, hadn’t changed from the one in Stiles’s world. He snagged some clothing from the staff locker room along with a keycard badge and helped himself to the medicine closet. Stiles projected the energy that he was not out of place, that he was doing what he needed to. No one stopped him.

Stiles’s first stop was the nearest neighborhood. It was midday, most people were still at work, so the houses he hit were empty for his quick B & E stint. The first one yielded some passable clothing he switched out as well as a backpack, some over the counter meds that would come in handy later, shoes, and a bit of cash.

He hit two more houses on the next street. Accumulated a nice stash of non-perishable food, some more clothing, cash, and a bike. It was enough to get him through about a week if he was frugal and Stiles knew how to do that. 

He tried not to think about it as stealing. It was, and it twisted his guts around, but it wasn’t about greed or gain. It was survival.

_ Never be ashamed for surviving,  _ D ad had told him once. They had just passed the California border and left a smoking RV behind them along with the corpses of three people. Actual human people who had tried to ambush them except that Stiles had reacted first.

Stiles made not of the addresses. He would pay them back at some point. Not that they needed it, judging by the amount of physical wealth they had, but it was the principle of the thing. 

_ We can still be decent people even in the apocalypse,  _ Scott had said.

It was nightfall by the time he made it to the loft. Still abandoned. Still empty and stale. No electricity but Stiles wasn’t surprised. It did have some running water so Stiles took advantage to wash up a bit even though the cold was piercing. He set up camp in a corner that used to be Derek’s room but avoided walking directly through the middle of the front room. Too many bad things had happened there. It was like stepping over a grave.

He made up a bed of a couple of yoga mats and thin blankets. Downed a couple of protein shakes. Then got to work on the wards. He scratched them out along the walls, no need to hide their presence, in sidewalk chalk until the magic connected and thrummed through the place. Only then did he relax and take the pills from the hospital. The blankets smelled like mothballs and rosewater. The loft made its own variety of noises. Creaks and cracks and mice in the walls. 

But Stiles was safe. Nothing ordinary or magical could get through the wards without waking him. He could sleep.

It took hours but his body gave in. It always did.

  
  



	3. Everyone Has An Origin Story

Stiles healed. Stiles healed slowly. One of the drawbacks of being human and not something that his magic could just take away. Magic was energy and energy came from the body. The healthier the body the better the magic, even if it was supplemented with a deep well of determined will. 

By the end of the week, Stiles was ready to claw the walls he was so bored. Still, he waited until he was almost finished with his supply of tinned foods and power bars before he poked his head out. 

Beacon Hills was a different beast after dark. Always had been even without the murderous creatures of the night running the shadows. Pop-up clubs and raves happened like mold and with them came a plethora of shady and underhanded dealings, both the normal and supernatural kind. Stiles remembered, a long time ago, nearly crawling out of his skin when he witnessed people dropping acid in a very unhygienic bathroom that didn't have running water. The many drug lectures with accompanying before and after pictures of addicts laid down by his dad had made a big impression.

Stiles still wanted to crawl out of his skin but it was for different reasons now.

The press of so many people and the pulsing music that drowned out everything else ticked up his anxiety. The energies mixing in the air were a bitch to navigate with his magic, too. He still wasn't up to his usual levels, anyway, so it grated like wool against the skin.

Stiles hung out in the darkened corners and nursed a bottled water, moving with the flow of the people but never quite joining them. Most didn’t notice. The loud music, the booze they drank, the drugs they were on, it cocooned them in a spell of mundane making. He got a few stares and subtle looks from those who weren’t there just to party. Some sent a subtle, inquiring spell or two his way. Feeling out his aura, his intentions. The cluster of sigils high on his back dispersed those spells before they could hit.

A woman finally approached him after midnight. In her forties, decked out in a comfortable goth aesthetic that was wholly functional. Stiles lost count of the tattoos under the lace and fishnets. The woman had a presence that rolled off her. It spoke of calm power. Neutrality.

Her name was Naomi. Stiles had met her, briefly, in his old world.

Stiles met her guarded and inquiring gaze with an impassive one of his own. 

"You don't look like you're having a good time, sweetheart," she said over the music. "What's the matter, can't dance?"

"Not here for a party. Looking for some groceries, actually."

Naomi raised a plucked eyebrow and gave Stiles another once over. "A bit young to be entrenched in the arts, aren't you?"

"Time is a relative I avoid and not just around the holidays."

Naomi let out a deep, belly laugh. And that was how Stiles ended up in the back room talking to four members of the Beacon County coven until the sun began to rise. The meeting went a lot better than it had previously. No one was in imminent danger of demise this time. Also, Naomi had a pretty good sense of humor and sarcasm that Stiles hadn't known about in his world. She had a perceptive eye and an appreciation for mystery, and Stiles was plenty mysterious to warrant a tenuous acquaintanceship. 

Witches didn't deal in money, which was good because Stiles only had a little that he had managed to snag from his B&E's. Witches dealt in spells. He had come prepared with some more modest workings. Charmed necklaces geared towards protection and mild deceptions, both things witches appreciated. Working on depleted energy meant the offerings had taken five times as long to create than normal but that would soon be remedied.

In return for the jewelry, Naomi gave Stiles an introduction to the coven elders. Much like a werewolf pack, most covens didn't like other magic users moving into the territory without a formal meeting. They weren't as stringent as the packs with instincts that drove them to protect an area, but they had their own rules and channels. 

The local coven elders met him at Starbucks a few days later and extracted an oath not to fuck shit up on their turf intentionally and to keep them abreast of any problems he happened to see.

"So things have been quiet here?" he asked, taking a sip of his overly chocolatey frappucino. 

"The energy is in balance," Elder Kim McDonough said. She was dressed to the nines as an upper-middle-class soccer mom, complete with a monogrammed handbag and pixie bob haircut but spoke with a gentle, unbothered sort of lilt to her tone.

"What about hunters?"

"As I said, the energy is in balance. There has been no need for hunters. Why? Have you got some on your trail?"

"Not currently, but I've had some run-ins with them." Stile allowed his arms to slide forward and the sleeves of his jacket rolled up. The elders' faces took on a pinched expression. Even healed the marks were unsightly to look at. "They were the shoot first ask no questions later kind of hunters."

Elder Debra Casey muttered a couple of choice words and stirred her tea. Built stout and short, Debra had tattoos scrawled up her thick arms and a squared-off face. She owned and managed several of the gas stations around town if he remembered right. "Condolences. But this area hasn't had that kind of trouble, thank the gods."

"And the local werewolf pack, the Hales? Are they in balance?"

Elder Kim cut him a sharp look. "The wolves are in check and their alpha works with us and the other factions. Have you been to treat with them?"

Stiles shook his head.

"No, and I don't plan to. Just wanted to make sure."

"Had trouble with wolves, as well? I can assure you, the Hales are an old and respected family here."

"I don't doubt it. I used to have good werewolf friends. But, hunters."

Elder Debra made a sympathetic noise. "The Hales wouldn't mind the friendship of another witch."

Stiles's mouth lifted in a quick smile but he shook his head again. "I'm just looking to get back on my feet and extend protection to a couple of people I promised I'd look after. They may not need it, but I keep my promises."

"And you're sure your past altercations won't follow you here?"

Stiles met the Elders' eyes one by one and casually laid his hand on the napkin Elder Kim had drawn the truth spell on. They hadn't made him state his name under it, just his intentions. Witches knew the power of a name, they respected it.

"What's in the past for me will stay there. I'm here to safeguard against anything in the future."

Elder Debra nodded. "All right then. Welcome to Beacon Hills, Jimmy. You should probably come up with a last name before you get too far."

Stiles grinned. "Noted."

~

It was strange to live in Beacon Hills and be so separate from it. Stiles kept to the loft during the day and only ventured out after dark. He moved through it like a ghost. No roots, no pack, no friends. He saw more of Carlos, the clerk who worked nights at the 24hr corner store, than anyone else except Naomi. From Naomi, he traded spells for supplies, a fake ID, and cash connections.

As his energy replenished his spells got better, more potent. So did the protections around the loft. He visited thrift stores, dumpsters, and the dump to find anything still in good enough shape to use. It was amazing the things people threw away that still had plenty of use left in them. He scored a couple of small tables that way and a decent corkboard that was missing the frame. Soon he had one corner of the loft pretty homey if he said so himself. Still no electricity. That would attract too much attention, but he managed to get a gym membership so he could go somewhere to shower with hot water, and he learned to live off cold canned foods, things he could microwave at the convenience store, and coffee from the Midnighters Diner. Stiles trekked to the laundromat at three in the morning on alternating days once a week.

And things stayed quiet.

By the time most of his bruises had faded to yellow Stiles knew he should check in on John and the rest of the pack. It was time. He was clear-headed, his magic at full capacity. It was his stupid anxiety that got in the way. 

He still had John’s card. He took it out and held it at least once a day, running his thumb across the black lettering and the raised badge emblem. It almost felt like a dream now, having been so close. Sometimes Stiles couldn't believe he made it through that meeting without breaking down, confessing everything, begging for John to believe him, to take him home.

And coming up with a plan of action had been so much easier before he was actually ready to do it. Stiles, by nature, was not a loner. He craved attention and friendship and love like air. He told himself he was fine while he was awake. There was more than enough to keep him busy. But when he went to sleep, well. Stiles had never been a peaceful sleeper. Some days even the mild deception necklace he wore to distort his features couldn’t erase the bags under his eyes. The nightmares were vicious things living rent-free in Stiles’s head. But they brought up a lot of valid points.

It had been weeks since Stiles crash-landed in this world. There was still a missing person's report out for him but he'd been careful not to be seen by anyone except the witches he sought out. So far they had all kept his presence a secret. But it was time to buck up and initiate his new mission.

Everyone Stiles had ever loved or liked or tolerated enough to consider pack was still in Beacon Hills except Kira. He couldn’t have them back in his life in any capacity but he could still protect them. Starting with John and his Stiles.

Stiles got to the house around eleven. There was a tree across the street with enough foliage to lend him cover. Scrambling up was a bit of a struggle but he made it up and settled in. John came home about thirty minutes later from patrol. Stiles’s throat closed up as he exited his patrol car, still in uniform, and stretched to pop his back. 

Stiles rubbed at his chest above his heart and willed the ache to stop.

The front door opened and a babysitter was there. She was young, Stiles's age, or maybe a bit older. He didn't recognize her. Long dark hair hung by her shoulders and she chatted with John with an ease that spoke of long familiarity. John paid her and she left with a bright grin and a wave. 

Stiles counted to five minutes after she turned the corner to make sure she didn't come back. John locked up and Stiles followed the lights as they turned off and on. John made his way upstairs and checked on his Stiles before retiring to his room. Stiles gave him an hour to ensure he got into bed and went to sleep before he moved. 

The shadows kept him close and Stiles made it into the yard and up to the house without a sound or alerting Mr. Flosky's insomnia ridden chihuahuas. Stiles got to work. Minutes ticked by into hours as he circled the house carving sigils, runes, and patterns that he braided with whispers and blood. By the time dawn was near the house was a fortress. Or at least as much one as Stiles could make it that night.

He risked a moment more, pressing his hand and forehead against the faded siding, and closed his eyes.

"I'm gonna keep you both safe," he vowed.

~

Scott's house received a similar treatment. So did Erica's, Boyd's, Lydia's, and Jackson's. Stiles couldn't help but think his younger self would call him crazy for doing that. Jackson had been a douche, even up until the end, but he'd come around in other respects. They'd never been as close as he was to Scott, but they'd been pack and that was a bond all on its own.

That only left Issac and Stiles had a different sort of protection in mind for him.

Stiles had to switch up his sleep schedule a bit first. Isaac walked to school and was the first one out of the house. Mr. Lahey slept in a bit more before he went to his job at the steelworks. No longer the high school swim coach, Mr. Lahey now spent his days toiling in a warehouse loading and unloading pallets and boxes of steel to fashion into various shapes and purposes. He worked all day and came home a couple of hours after Isaac.

After Lahey left for his shift Stiles stole into the house and poked around. So much had been different already in this world he had to make sure Lahey was still an abusive prick before he did anything. Unfortunately, Stiles found the chest freezer just as Isacc had once described it, complete with fingernail marks on the inside.

Stiles threw up in the kitchen sink, hands shaking.

The next morning Stiles waited for Isacc to leave again. Isaac was only nine or ten. Scott was, too, from the short glimpse Stiles had had of him. They were so tiny and young, it was impossible for him to understand the urge to lay hands on them. Or lock them in a dark space and listen to them scream.

Stiles picked the lock and let himself in. The house was quiet except for the hum of electricity and the barely-there stutter of the fridge. Stiles’s feet made no sound on the carpet going upstairs and to the master bedroom. He pressed his ear to the door. A slight snore came from within. He pushed it open and slipped inside.

Stiles went about setting the spell as the minutes ticked down to Lahey’s alarm. It was a bit harrowing to stitch the spell together around him but Stiles has practiced. When it’s done Lahey shuddered and pulled his covers up as if warding off a sudden chill. Now all that was left was to make sure it worked and to let Lahey know what Stiles expected him.

Stiles stood before the door with his hands clasped behind his back. The alarm went off. Lahey groaned and slapped around for the clock until it went silent and leveraged himself up with a groan. He didn’t register Stiles until he was almost standing and then he flinched and let out a strangled yell.

“Good morning, Mr. Lahey.”

“Who the hell are you?” Lahey’s eyes darted around for the bat Stiles had already removed. Lahey’s hands clenched and unclenched. “You here to rob me?”

“I’m here about Isaac, Mr. Lahey. More specifically, what you do to him.”

Lahey’s eyes narrowed.

“The hell has he been saying? Did he send you here to try and scare me? Pull a prank on me?”

“I’ve come of my own volition. See, I don’t tolerate abusive assholes. And you are a horrible specimen of a human being. The beatings and the verbal abuse is bad enough, but then you lock him in the freezer.” Stiles graces him with a cold smile. “You’re going to stop. With the freezer, with the beatings, with treating your son like dirt.”

Lahey lashed out. Like a viper his fist connected with Stiles’s face before he registered it moving. The blow rattled his teeth and there was blood in his mouth, but it was worth it when Lahey dropped to his knees, clutched his head, and  _ howled. _

Stiles swallowed the blood and waited until Lahey stopped, chest heaving.

“Did you enjoy that, Mr. Lahey?”

Lahey struck again, blind, and hit Stiles in the stomach. He doubled over while Lahey collapsed with another pained scream, his fingers dug into his hair. Stiles bit off a groan and straightened back up.

“That is what will happen to you every time you hurt your son,” Stiles said around the thick taste of copper. “Every time you use your fists or sling a belt or spit out poisonous words. If you mean to hurt him then it’s you who suffers more. Each time is closer to a full-on aneurysm. Ever seen one of those? No? Well, your brain will light up like a Christmas tree. You will piss and shit yourself while your brain becomes a smoking crater in your skull.”

Lahey looked up, his eyes blown wide in fear.

“What did you do to me?”

“Think of this as a second chance with stipulations.” Stiles lifted a gloved hand and snapped his fingers. A showy ball of light appeared above his hand and brightened the entire room until Lahey lifted a hand to shield his eyes. “See I put a time bomb in your brain. You only get so many fuck ups before the bomb goes off. Could be three times. Could be nine. Could be one. It’s up to you how much you want to chance your fate.”

Lahey paled as that information sunk in.

“What are you?” Lahey whispered.

“Call me a concerned citizen who won’t stand for child abuse. I want you to be as scared of hurting your son as he is of you. Taste of your own medicine and all that. I suggest you learn to like the taste. Could save your life.”

Stiles left Lahey trembling on the bedroom floor and slipped out of the house. His hands shook for hours even after he sat on them but it was worth it. It would be worth it. For the next week, he staked out the Lahey residence to see if it did any good. In that time Lahey only struck Isaac once. The intense pain was enough to quell him and Lahey shrunk in on himself like his son always did. Isaac watched his dad with wary confusion but Lahey began to avoid Isaac, barely speaking to him, electing to eat in the den, etc,. But there were no more beatings, no screaming, no being thrown in the freezer.

Stiles breathed through his nausea. It was definitely worth it.

The spell wasn’t exactly as Stiles had laid out. The pain was simple transference from his victim amplified. Lahey, unfortunately, wouldn’t shit himself to death if he crossed the line. Stiles didn’t have that kind of expertise and it ventured into seriously dark magic territory for his own taste. But as long as Lahey believed it then Isaac should be safer. The only drawback of the spell was how it wore off after a month. Stiles made a note in a battered spiral notebook to refresh it before them.

It was one more entry into an ever-growing list of things Stiles had to watch out for, fix, or prevent.

~

The weeks turned into a month and then two. Stiles checked into every supernatural occurrence he remembered to see if there would be repeat events but found nothing. The Hale fire hadn’t happened. No hunters were in town. Kate Argent was on the east coast, as far as Stiles could ascertain, and showed no inclination to head west.

From what he could tell, Derek was sixteen and still in high school. Stiles kept his distance while he worked up some scent suppression charms. Those were always trickier for him and he was still leery about approaching the Hales to ward their residence. Unlike the others, there was no way they wouldn’t know he was there and talking to them felt just as impossible. He couldn’t exactly walk up, introduce himself, and say he needed to protect their property with a slew of spells because of a tragedy that happened in another world.

Derek might not be the one to throw him into a wall but someone in that family would.

The Hales were a problem for another day. So far the Elder Kim’s assessment was right on. Very little supernatural activity actually made the wire in Beacon Hills. Stiles kept his ear to the ground, an eye on the papers, and touched base with Naomi on the regular but there was nothing else for him to do.

It was disconcerting.

Stiles found himself at loose ends. There was no enemy to research or track or fight. His anxiety became worse than ever, knotted up in his gut, waiting for a hammer fall that wasn’t coming down. He wished it would. He knew what to do with himself when he was tackling a problem.

But Beacon Hills was not immune from normal criminal activities and Stiles soon got his wish.

The east side of town where he was squatting in the loft was surrounded by regular violent crimes. Drugs were rampant. He heard of two stabbings and a slew of carjackings from Carlos at the corner store. Then Stiles himself was nearly mugged.

It happened on one of his midnight walks around town. He had grown a bit complacent, perhaps, letting his anxiety tangle up his awareness. Maybe he was a bit arrogant as well. He knew of the crimes that happened but never figured they would have any impact on him. Not unless there was a supernatural connection. That had been stupid.

Stiles never sensed the man until he bounced Stiles’s head off the wall and pressed a knife to his neck. The guy didn’t have the chance to demand his wallet. Stiles loosed a dual spell charge and then the mugger was flat on his back, twitching like he’d been struck by lightning.

Which, in a way, he had been. The amount of energy stored in that spell was equipped to stun a werewolf. The mugger was still alive, at least. Just having a really bad night.

Stiles stood over the mugger’s body in shock and an idea took hold of his brain. Stiles called in the attempted mugging and climbed to the roof of the rundown laundromat to watch. A sheriff’s cruiser pulled up. John and his partner stepped out.

Stiles swallowed around the lump in his throat. John and his partner took the mugger into custody, still twitching, and they found his knife and some other incriminating evidence on him. Stiles wasn’t his first intended victim of the night but, he thought with satisfaction, he was the last attempt.

Now, Stiles could lay down what he did next to reading too many comic books and an unhealthy obsession with Batman. But he couldn’t deny there was a visceral kind of satisfaction in hunting down ordinary criminals with supernatural means. He had magic, paranoia, and a high drive to do something worthwhile, to protect. Add in time to spare and no social life of any kind and Stiles realized he had the perfect opportunity to utilize everything he learned through the trauma of his world to make this one just a bit safer.

Scott would have laughed himself back into his asthma if he could have seen Stiles.

  
  



	4. Rise Of The Shadow

The problem with being a teenage vigilante witch was that Stiles was still human. No super healing, no extra strength. Just whatever spells he could conjure ahead of time that he thought would help and his own physical strength. Fortunately, Stiles didn’t have to balance vigilante work against school or family or anything except his own health. 

Unfortunately, when Stiles got hurt it took time to heal and there was no one to back him up if things got bad.

Stiles knew all that. He made extensive pro and con lists before he took any action. They were in the back of his mind the entire time, every waking hour. Ways he could fuck up and die or ways he could fuck up and get someone else killed. Ways he could get discovered. Ways that involved his dad arresting him. Or killing him. But he _needed_ this. That was the thing that cinches it. Stiles had been fighting the supernatural in war, essentially, since he was fifteen years old. He watched his town get destroyed. And his pack died to save him.

Stiles wasn't looking for redemption. But he needed a purpose or Dad’s last act of love was going to end with Stiles dead by his own design in some way, shape, or form. Stiles was alive and he needed a reason to keep living. If he could save others, if he could protect them, then that was a worthy pursuit.

And if he didn’t find something to fill his time that utilized his hard-won skills then he was in real danger of another trip to Eichen House.

The one thing Stiles knew was lacking was his physical training. As in, he had some. When things went apocalyptic and Dad was no longer sheriff (and Beacon Hills no longer  _ was _ ) his Dad and Parrish took him aside to trained him in basic hand-to-hand so he didn’t have to rely on magic or a nearby werewolf.

Stiles had thrown himself into it. Whatever he needed to better survive and keep the others alive, it was all the same. Stiles picked up quite a bit but he was no expert. And he was out of practice.

Over another week Stiles got his hands on some equipment and set it up in the loft. There was a kickboxing place across town that was open late but it was too close to the sheriff’s station to risk it. Stiles would have to rely on what he remembered, keep in shape, and use magic to make up the difference.

This was going to work, Stiles thought as he squared off against the punching bag, his hands taped and drawn up to protect his face.

It had to.

~

The drug dealer Stiles originally ran into in that ally off of Fillmore was out on bail and up to his old routine again. Stiles caught wind of him hanging around the newest rave, which was just down the street from the loft. Stiles did some digging first, put a few questions out into the right ears he’d come to know over months walking Beacon Hills’s streets, and found out Marcus Delmonico was the kind of guy who would shake down an old lady for what her grandkid owed him and then take her dentures to stomp them to pieces in front of both of them.

The old woman was terrified. Her grandkid, not a bad kid by what Stiles could see, just young and dumb and poor and looking to prove himself, was in over his head. Thought he could make himself something bigger than east side trash, thought someone like Marcus could help him get there. The old woman gave Marcus her entire social security benefits check to spare her grandkid hurt. Their electricity was cut off a few days later.

That same sickening anger that had filled Stiles when he confronted Mr. Lahey made a home for itself in his gut as he followed Marcus throughout the week. Marcus slunk around town in a gold Trans Am, haunting the clubs and raves peddling his wares, and eventually slunk back out to his trailer house on the outskirts of town. Stiles rifled through the trail one night while Marcus was out and when he found enough evidence (not that it took long. Marcus was a drug dealer with some bigger connections but he wasn’t exactly  _ bright _ ) Stiles dressed in black and covered his face with a ski mask.

His inner kid was dying from the lack of originality or cool factor. Stiles looked like a normal burglar. Not even a cool one like Catwoman, either. 

Still, he took Marcus by surprise and knocked him over with a human grade version of the spell that caught his first mugger by surprise. As Marcus lay twitching on the floor, Stiles dragged him out of the trailer and trussed him up in the yard. Then he propped the trailer door open and left his supply of ecstasy, coke, and other drug-related items in a neat organized pile just inside the door. It was more than enough for probably cause no matter which way it was sliced. Last, he raided Marcus’ money stash and cleaned him out.

Stiles called in the crime from Marcus’s own landline.

“Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Department.”

“I’d like to report criminal drug activity at 110 Painter Lane. The drug dealer is in the yard and ready to be arrested and all his drug stuff is inside the front door. The guy has been selling to kids at the clubs and being a general unsavory menace, too. The last part isn’t illegal, I guess, but you can definitely arrest him for the other stuff.”

Marcus sputtered at Stiles from where he was hogtied and helpless. Stiles waved back.

"Sir, what is your name?"

"Don't have one but as a citizen of Beacon Hills I'm happy to help."

Stiles hung up and whistled as he left the area at a quick jog. Marcus cursed a blue streak after him but Stiles was out of sight and hidden in the treeline by the time the cruisers rolled up. John was there again. Stiles was too far away to hear the conversation but Marcus threw a fit. John put his hands on his hips, conversing as easy as he would over a cup of coffee.

Stiles's chest clenched at the sight but he felt something warm rise up around it.

Yeah, he thought. He’d done something good here.

When they hauled Marcus up and slapped cuffs on him, Stiles pulled back into the shadows until they were all gone. The grandmother woke up to her electricity back on and a good chunk of change wedged in her windowsill. Stiles kept some for himself to get groceries, some other necessities, and saved the rest back for a rainy day.

~

Word spread like wildfire through the underbelly of Beacon Hills. The Shadow was stalking the criminal element and turning them over to the cops. 

Stiles highly objected to that name. Could no one be original anymore? The Shadow was so stupid, it made him sound like some amateur villain lurking in a trenchcoat somewhere. But, no matter how stupid he thought it was, it seemed to strike some fear into the criminals on the east side. That was the good news. Already there was a drop in muggings and Stiles was running all of Marcus's connections into the ground. The bad  news was that Stiles was now the subject of an open investigation.

Honestly, he expected that would happen at some point. Stiles called in all the criminals he apprehended. He didn’t hide that he was making this a regular thing. He should have. Probably. But he was already juggling so many different plates just making sure he caught the right people and had enough power and precaution on his side to stay relatively safe. Once the hard part was done Stiles was on an adrenaline high that, he admitted, made him way more candid than he should have been.

Stiles was lonely as hell. Snarking with dispatch was the only good attention he got from anyone these days. And it nearly got him caught.

Stiles was attempting to take down Marcus’s remaining supplier. The supplier was a big guy, twice the size of Derek, and human gade spells were doing shit all to subdue him. Stiles wheezed under his mask. His left side would be all sorts of fun colors in the morning. Also, his left eye was well on its way to swelling up after a nasty left hook. He dodged another hit and smacked the guy with a bright flash charm to screw up his sight.

Stiles had stitched spells to the insides of his clothing once he committed to the whole thing. The spells helped him fade into the darkness, helped turn steel aside, and hid his heartbeat. He was still working on a spell to hide his scent. It was a lot to ask out of thrift store clothing but it was the best he could manage for protection without stealing law enforcement grade equipment from, well, John. He stored other bits of spellcraft in hidden pockets that had been a bitch to sew but kept him from having a cliched utility belt.

Not a one of them was doing shit all to slow this guy down. But he had one more thing left to try.

The supplier bellowed and Stiles finally landed a strengthened hit to his temple. The guy went down. Stiles pounced and wrenched his arms behind him to tie him to a pole. The man flexed but the ties held. _Thank god._

“You, sir, were exceptionally unreasonable,” Stiles panted at the groaning man. “Now for the finishing touch.”

Stiles pulled a big, sparkly, red bow from one of his pockets and stuck it to the supplier’s bald head. Christmas was only a few weeks away, after all. Stiles was badly adjusting the bow when flashing lights and a siren scared the shit out of him.

John and his partner.  _ Again _ . Just how many doubles was he trying to pull?

“You in the mask, freeze!”

Stiles raised his hands and backed away from the supplier.

“I think you’ll find enough evidence in this one’s pockets to connect him to your local drug ring, deputies.”

“Don’t move, you’re coming in, too.”

Stiles tilted his head to the side, exhibiting curiosity even as his stomach went hot and cold by turns. He was normally out of sight by this point. He made sure not to interact with the responding deputies, just the person on dispatch who normally took his call. It was just as terrifying as he imagined it would be to be caught by John.

“No thanks, deputy. I think it’s time for me to turn in, get some sleep. This one gave me a workout."

The supplier kicked out and Stiles barely dodged having his knee dislocated. "Behave!"

John’s face was a mask of hard lines that Stiles never, ever saw directed at him. Not even when it was his fault Dad was fired from the department. Stiles was not a fan of being on the receiving end of it.

“You’re taking the law into your own hands. That’s not something we can ignore.”

“Well, I would hope not. I’m doing this to help you out. You guys can’t be everywhere all the time. I just happen to be in the places you aren’t.”

Stiles had a chance to get away. If he ran now he can disappear into the crowd about to exit the Sinema club as it closed. He’s got new ink spilling down his skin that forms runes and sigils to help him slide from sight and mind. As long as he managed to activate it while no one is looking at him it would work. If John or his partner watched while he worked it the magic wouldn't hold against their focus.

Timing was essential.

John wasn't having his sass, though. His gun was drawn. He motioned for Stiles to turn around while his partner checked on the supplier.

“Hands on your head. Get on your knees.”

Stiles put his hands on his head. Then turned and ran. John cursed and his partner called it in. John pursued.

“I’m not the bad guy, here, just for the record!” Stiles shouted over his shoulder.

Thankfully, his timing did not suck. Drunk and buzzed partiers spilled into the sidewalk in front of Sinema. Stiles ripped his mask off and activated his tattoos as he slipped between people. They absorbed him and carried him out toward the parking lot. Stiles risked one glance backward. John had holstered his gun and searched the crowd back by the club but cursed in frustration.

It wasn’t until Stiles got back to the loft that John’s words registered.

_ You’re taking the law into your own hands. That’s not something we can ignore. _

Stiles raked a hand through his hair and growled at the empty loft. This couldn’t happen again. Stiles had been lucky, stupidly lucky. He would need to rethink his approach and make serious adjustments. How had they even known to find him there?

They had to have had someone watching. Someone undercover keeping an eye on things who either happened to be in the right place or picked up the pattern of Stiles’s strikes.

Stiles crossed the loft to what had been Isaac’s room and lit a camping lantern. Light spilled over the case boards filled with slips of paper, pictures, and colored strings connecting them to crimes. Perhaps he’d been too systematic in his approach. It was a natural progression to work the drug ring since they were basically on Stiles’s front porch. Stiles had just made it easy for them. The last two criminals had connections to Marcus. 

Fuck. He would have to abandon that case for a while. That burned Stiles. Leaving something undone wasn’t right but he didn’t have a choice, really. If he kept pulling at threads and investigating it would just give the department more opportunity to collar him. And unmask Stiles.

Stiles was a minor but they’d still put him in jail. 

Stiles punched the criminal board and stalked out of the room. He had to take care of his injuries but he stewed over the interaction well into the dawn hours.

If Stiles got caught then there would be no one left to protect John. He had to do better. 

Stiles had to  _ be _ better.

  
  



	5. Beware The Fall

Even if Stiles were full of good intentions he would still end up paving the road to hell. That well-known fact sat adjacent to Murphy’s Law and everything else in the universe that loved to fuck with Stiles.

Stiles had been careful. He had been meticulous. He dropped his investigation into Marcus’s drug connections and picked more random crimes. The funny thing was that Stiles wasn’t even working a case that night, two weeks later. He was just out for a walk when he heard the scuffle from a darkened parking lot.

Stiles slipped his mask on before he could second guess his actions and activated the spells in his clothing. He spotted two people struggling near a car with the driver’s door open. As he got closer he realized there were four people; two were on the ground with one bleeding and one out cold. The one out cold was a deputy.

The carjacker was up and struggling with the fourth person. John.

Every pro and con list he memorized went out the window as Stiles slipped into the fray. He took the carjacker by surprise with a rabbit punch to the temple that released John from a headlock. Stiles was still in motion and bodily knocked the carjacker into the vehicle as John gasped and came around just a little slow.

The carjacker swung back. Something glinted in the streetlight, metallic. Stiles didn’t even think. Just grabbed the wrist as it stabbed toward him. The momentum carried it down and Stiles twisted. The spell on his shirt turned the knife aside a little but not enough to stop it from breaking skin. The bright, hot pain drew a gasp from him, and fire raced down his arm.

Stiles twisted the wrist until something bent a way it wasn’t meant to and hit the carjacker in the face again. He went down. An arm entered Stiles’s peripheral and he dodged John, danced a few feet out of reach. But he didn’t leave.

“Are you okay?” Stiles asked.

John regarded him with a guarded expression. Stiles’s eyes darted to the other deputy and the victim. The deputy had gotten up and was tending to them. The pavement around the victim was wet with a dull red sheen. Stiles hoped he was in time.

“I’m fine, thank you for the assist,” John said, pulling Stiles’s attention back to him.

Stiles nodded. “Good. And it’s no problem, just-just being a good citizen.”

The other deputy called on the radio for an ambulance. Stiles faced John as the awkward silence stretched between them. He should have left. He really should have. Why were his feet not moving?

“Vigilantism isn’t the best way to express that, you know. You could get hurt, badly, doing this on your own."

Stiles shrugged. “People get hurt every day. If you have the power to do something you should. So I am.”

Stiles should shut up is what he should do. He should run before backup arrives. Before his arm leaves enough DNA on the concrete to fuck his future up if he ever gets caught. His feet stayed planted, though. God, his dad was so close, just right there. 

“There’s a right way and a wrong way to go about it, though. The wrong way gets you killed, or the person you’re trying to save. You don’t want that on your conscience, son.”

Stiles’s laugh took them both by surprise. It was the kind of laugh that clawed its way up in gouging strokes. The kind that turned into sobs if not swallowed back quick.

“I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be disrespectful. I've already got that on my conscience, anyway. But I can still do this. I can do something good.”

Sirens echoed in the distance, gaining ground. Stiles backed away. His feet dragged the pavement. Stubborn fuckers.

“Get some ice on your elbow, deputy. Don’t want that old injury to lock up on you because it’s swollen.”

Stiles ran. _Finally._ He didn’t stop running until he was back at the loft and raged at himself, knocking things off his tables, throwing the knife across the room. He didn't remember taking it from the carjacker. Stiles slapped his face until the sting brought tears to his eyes. 

The oncoming panic attack wasn’t a surprise. John almost died tonight. He almost died _again_ and Stiles almost had to watch it _again._ Stiles also said something stupid that he couldn’t take back. He’d gotten too close twice now. Stiles gripped his knees and counted and tried to breathe. The attack didn’t go away but he didn’t blackout, either. Stiles sat on the concrete floor with his own blood drying in the cracks of his skin and ached for his family.

Stiles hated himself and he hated Dad a little bit for sending him here and he hated himself even more for daring to hate Dad for anything and he hates that the world, any world, still saw fit to keep turning in the wake of all the loss crushing Stiles.

~

A break from prowling the streets was in order and Stiles adjusted his schedule to go out in the daylight hours. It was not what he wanted to do. More than ever he craved to hunt someone down who was hurting someone else but it was apparent that Stiles was too close to making a fatal mistake. Just that morning a vague description of Stiles circulated on the news outlets and John even managed to get a warped and grainy still of Stiles before he put the mask on to help in the car lot.

It was a terrible image, it didn’t give more than a person shape and a mess of dark hair but it was enough. The report said Stiles was sought as a witness to a crime. Nothing about his vigilantism.

Christmas was in two days and everyone was bundled up in coats and scarves and hats, so blending in during the day wasn’t an issue. Stiles took to walking the neighborhoods all day. Anything to get him out of the loft where the criminal board mocked him with all the useful things he could be doing if he hadn’t fucked up so bad. 

School was out. Teenagers hung out everywhere, shopping, having fun. Stiles moved through them like a ghost. Happy couples reminded him of Scott and Allison, of Scott and Kira. Of himself and Malia. A pretty girl holding court with senseless ease was Lydia for one heartbreaking moment. Stiles was an alien among them. These kids, their problems were so different from his own. He tried to remember what it was like but all he could conjure was a pale reflection. An empty space that had been cored out.

Stiles was no older than many of them but felt the weight of infinitely more decades.

So he made his rounds to check the wards on all of the houses, recharging the one on Lahey, and saved his own for last. They were strong as ever with no sign of wear or tear. He didn’t linger and decided to head back to the loft as the evening bled out toward nightfall. Halfway up the street, he spotted two familiar figures on bicycles headed toward the preserve.

Stiles followed at a distance. Why would this world’s Scott and Stiles be out this late? Then he rolled his eyes at himself. Why _wouldn’t_ they? Scott’s mom was probably working, Stiles knew John was. He wasn’t sure where the babysitter was, Stiles hadn’t seen her vehicle. Stiles wouldn’t put it past his younger self to have wormed his way out of having one. Probably by telling John that Melissa okayed the sleepover.

Following young Scott and Stiles wasn’t hard but he had to keep ducking out of sight. Scott was on edge. He jumped at every small noise and swiveled his head around, eyes wide, looking like a scared owl as if he expected something to jump out and scream, _boo._

Which, now that he thought about it, was not a bad idea. Given that supernatural stuff still went down in the woods (not to mention the meth labs), Stiles didn’t like the idea of young Stiles and Scott stumbling around alone at night. Even if Peter wasn’t raging around biting innocent Scotts.

Stiles knew he was being a huge hypocrite and was kind of disgusted at himself on his inner child’s behalf. He chose not to examine that too close.

“You know the woods are dangerous for kids this time of year, right?”

Scott squeaked and younger Stiles screamed, complete with a full-body flail that landed him right on his backside. Stiles tilted his head, unimpressed at his younger self, and waited for them to collect themselves. A weird sense of deja vu swept through him. Was this how Derek felt when he confronted them outside the Hale house? Unimpressed, sort of cringing? Derek had definitely been angrier, though, with good reason.

“What’s it to you?” younger Stiles demanded. With his buzzcut, younger Stiles resembled a perturbed hedgehog as Scott brushed leaves off his back. No wonder no one ever took him seriously back then.

“I have it on good authority that there are mountain lions in these woods. You two would be a nice dinner for one of them.”

“Again, what’s it to you, scarecrow?”

Wow. No wonder Derek slammed him into so many walls. Stiles sent a silent apology to him for, well, _everything._

“Maybe we should head back.” Scott eyed older Stiles and shuffled closer to the younger one, probably to latch onto him so he didn’t do something stupid, or to drag him running.

Younger Stiles bristled. God, so many hedgehog vibes. “Why? He’s not the boss of us. Besides, there haven’t been any reports of mountain lions attacking people. Dad would have said.”

"Go on, guys. You don't need to be out this late. You’re just kids."

"Well you're just a teenager," younger Stiles mocked back.

Stiles narrowed his eyes. "Did you just quote the Last Airbender at me?"

Younger Stiles made a face.

"Maybe? Whatever. Just go away and leave us alone or I'll tell my dad you were stalking us. He's a deputy."

Oh, that little shit. Stiles opened his mouth to retort but froze when his senses went haywire. Something was out in the woods with them and it wasn't an animal or a human.

"You both need to leave. Now. Start walking back to your bikes."

Stiles drew his knife. Repurposed from the carjacker, Stiles had added some bite to the blade in case he ever got into a spot he needed it. It wouldn't do anything except piss off a supernatural creature but it was better than nothing. He hadn't carried any wolfsbane or mountain ash in months. He'd grown too complacent. That's what Stiles got for being stupid. Again.

Younger Stiles began to speak only to go quiet at the menacing growl that echoed around them. Stiles honed in on the direction. Werewolf. Probably feral. Probably an omega. 

"Holy shit, is that a mountain lion?" Scott quaked.

"Stay behind me and keep moving for your bikes. Get on and keep going. Don't stop until you're home."

"What about you?" younger Stiles whispered.

"I know what I'm doing."

He was doing something stupid but at least he was aware of it.

The omega stepped out of the treeline. He was a tad worse for the wear, wolfed out with glowing blue eyes and his clothing in tatters like he'd been roaming the woods for a while. So much for the energies being in balance, Stiles thought.

"Hey, you wake up on the flea-ridden side of the bed today?"

The omega snarled. It ran a clawed hand along the tree next to it, scoring the bark deep.

"Use your words, big fella, we're all civilized here."

The omega charged. Stiles surged forward and threw spells in the omega's path. They took him by surprise but not enough to stop him. Stiles followed up with a slash of the knife and twisted out of the way. Claws grazed him and ripped his jacket. Before Stiles could get into his next position the omega was on him and they both went down. They tumbled, locked together, end over end down a steep bank, and the omega swiped at Stiles's neck. 

Stiles pushed away in time to feel the air move over his tender jugular. The omega snagged the front of his jacket and ripped it all the way down. Stiles pulled up another spell, one that made a bright flash of light and set it off right in the omega's face. It howled in pain and let go of Stiles. Then Stiles was up and running. Younger Scott and Stiles had actually listened because he saw them peddling far ahead. Stiles pushed himself to follow and the last he heard the omega howled and ran the other way, seeking easier prey.

Stiles made it to the corner of Hickham before he had to double over, lungs wheezing and side burning, propped up by a low stone wall around someone's front yard. He dimly registered that he had dropped his knife in the fight. Damn it.

"Whoa, are you okay, mister?" Younger, painfully earnest, Scott appeared in Stiles's peripheral. Scott's breath rattled a bit like he'd just taken a hit off his inhaler. "Stiles, Stiles he's bleeding!"

Stiles looked down and-- son of a bitch. He pressed his hand to his side and bit his lip. Warmth bloomed under his fingers.

"It's fine, it's not that bad."

"Uh, yeah it is. It's way worse than a papercut, dude." Younger Stiles came closer and made to poke at it. Stiles jerked away and his vision went white.

Maybe it was worse than he thought.

"You should go to the hospital," Scott said. "My mom is a nurse and this is gonna need more than a bandaid."

"Probably stitches," Younger Stiles added.

"Yeah, not happening."

"Why not? Are you a wanted criminal?" Younger Stiles looked intrigued by the possibility even as he went pale at the sight of blood seeping through Stiles's fingers. A lot more blood than he anticipated.

"Sort of."

Stiles pushed himself upright. It was a good bit to the loft where all his supplies were. The school was closer. It had less security on it than it had in Stiles's world. He could hit the nurse's station. They had to have something to hold him together until he could get to the loft.

Scott and Derek and Dad would be yelling so much at Stiles if they saw him now. But they weren't there.

"Wait, I know you." Younger Stiles snapped his fingers, eyes alight with discovery. "You're that missing kid, the one that dad and the other deputies were searching for. You broke out of the hospital and ran away. Your name is Jimmy!" Younger Stiles turned to Scott and socked him in the shoulder. "I told you he looked familiar. His picture is still up at the station."

“Oh, hell."

Stiles started walking.

"Hey! You're still hurt, dude!"

"Go home before that thing comes back, Stiles! You don't want to be responsible if it eats Scott."

Scott sputtered something and Stiles took the moment to cast a quick-feet spell. It got him two blocks away before they could follow and he turned the corner as it cut off. Spots danced in front of his eyes but Stiles pushed on. Street lamps began to flicker on and cars turned on their headlights.

Stiles couldn't afford to stick strictly to the shadows but he did his best to look inconspicuous. Of course, he needed to get under cover before his younger self called Dad- called John and brought the whole fucking department out looking for him. The omega must have ripped his deception charm away. Of all the times for him to fuck up. _Again._

Never mind. He had to get to the school. 

~

Stiles lost some time along the way but then he came back to himself as he jimmied the lock of the nurse's station open. Stiles had to peel his shirt off it was so wet. He sucked in a pained breath. The wound was definitely worse than he hoped it would be. The omega had clawed Stiles around his side and almost all the way to his spine. Only luck had prevented the omega from severing it.

Stiles shivered as he cleaned the wound out. He could barely reach the part on his back and twisting around felt like stoking a fire along his nerves. He ended up doing his best with soap and water and then poured peroxide over his shoulder so it could wash over the wound. Stiles bit off a scream, head bowed, bloody fingers clenched white around the lip of the sink.

He bandaged the worst of it and cleaned up. Well, he mopped up what he could and smeared the rest. The nurse was going to have a conniption fit when she came in tomorrow. Stiles fumbled for one of the extra shirts in her closet. They always kept extras in case someone threw up on theirs. His hands and arms shook as he worked them through the sleeves and -- oh, crap, lifting his arms was a _bad idea._ Stiles breathed and counted and _do not pass out, damn you._

He didn't. Yay. Stiles tugged on the remains of his jacket and exited the nurse's station.

Right into the flashlight beam of a deputy coming down the hall.

Stiles froze for one awful moment. Then sound rushed in his ears and he turned on his heel and ran.

"Stop, sheriff's department!"

Stiles thundered down the hall only to find a second deputy blocking the outside doors. 

Dad again. His luck fucking sucked.

Stiles skidded and flailed and smacked into the corner wall as he turned away. John's hand reached out and narrowly missed Stiles's arm. Adrenaline flooded his system and he used it, ruthlessly. He sprinted past the lockers and made it to the next set of double doors.

Stiles burst out of them and landed hard on the gravel. He went to his hands and knees, scrambled, got back up. He took off for the bus lot, ducking between the vehicles and weaving, making for the back gate.

"Jimmy! Stop running. We're not here to hurt you!"

Stiles ducked down beside a back tire. John's voice was so much closer than it should have been. A slightly hysterical laugh tried to bubble up Stiles's throat. That made sense, John was in better shape at the moment than he had been in Stiles's old world. Stiles calmed his breathing and listened. Shit, this wasn't good.

One set of feet made their way through the buses, methodically checking. Stiles didn't hear the other deputy.

The gate was ten feet away. If Stiles sprinted he could make it. But how far after that? The loft was still a long way away. Stiles's vision slid to the right and he closed his eyes. He was so tired. Everything hurt. Everything was unraveling in front of his eyes.

"Don't move."

A light flicked on in his face. Stiles hung his head. He raised his hands trembling hands.

"Got him, Stilinski." 

Strong hands manhandled Stiles to his feet. Stiles swayed but kept himself upright. Mostly he leaned back against the bus. The deputy patted him down for weapons. Probably for the best he lost his knife. Stiles wanted to hurl. He swallowed it back, swallowed it down. Dad turned the corner of the bus. Stiles ducked his head lower. Every bad feeling in him settled in the pit of Stiles's stomach and twisted.

"Jimmy?" 

Without a word, he held out his hands to be cuffed. He shuddered at the thought of cuffs fitting over the thick scars. He had to take it. He’d take it or he would panic himself into blacking out. Maybe that was the better option. Stiles was headed for jail anyway. Of course, he wasn’t going to end up there. He would escape. But he needed energy for that and right now all his energy was leaking out of his side and soaking his jeans.

It was possible Stiles wouldn't make it to jail for an entirely different reason.

"Jimmy? Hey, look at me."

Stiles flinched from the hand near his face but obeyed. His face was wet. He didn't know why; it wasn't raining. A warm hand squeezed his shoulder.

"I'm not here to arrest you. I'm here to thank you. You saved my son and his best friend from a rampaging omega. You saved their lives."

Stiles stared.

"What."

John exchanged a loaded glance with the other deputy. "The omega in the woods," he repeated slowly. "Stiles said you tried to take it on with a knife so he and Scott could run away."

"You know about werewolves?!"

It came out incredulous and a little high pitched.

"Yeah, I know about quite a few things. Are you okay? The boys said you took a tumble with that wolf and got hurt. We saw a blood trail."

John knew. John _knew_ . He knew and he wasn't destroyed here. Stiles hadn't even gotten Scott bit and John knew about everything and was _completely fine_.

"I think I'm bleeding out again." The words spilled out, faint, but the effect was instantaneous. Hands patted at him, they opened his jacket. Stiles let his head fall back against the bus. With a shocked curse, someone yanked his shirt up.

"The hell were you thinking, running with this kind of wound?" 

John put pressure on the wound and Stiles doubled over with a groaned, _"_ Mother _fucker."_ The other deputy left to bring the cruiser around, feet slapping against the pavement at a run.

“Yeah, no shit,” John said. He angled himself so Stiles’s head was pressed into his shoulder to better prop him up.

Stiles breathed through clenched teeth. "It’s fine, I've had worse. I have."

John’s glare was so powerful Stiles didn’t have to see it to feel it.

"That is not even the point right now. You need a doctor, kid. These claw marks are deep, you could die from this."

Would that be so bad?

The thought wormed traitorous and rotten through Stiles's head. He'd done everything he could to keep that damnable promise but he acknowledged, deep in his heart, that he never expected to last long. Even before the hunters and their cage, it would have been a miracle for Stiles to see twenty years old. The pack had done well escaping Beacon Hills and running below the radar. If Stiles hadn't fucked up they might all have stolen a few more days or weeks or months.

If he bled out maybe he'd see them again.

"Whatever you're thinking, stop it." 

The words were vicious, commanding. Stiles whined in the back of his throat.

"Sorry."

John didn't even know what he was apologizing for. Stiles couldn't tell him. So he repeated it again and again. John shifted around so he could wrap one arm around Stiles’s shoulders as his other hand pressed down on the wound. He was holding Stiles. Hugging him.

"Shh. It's okay. We're going to take you to the hospital and get you patched up. You _will stay_ in that hospital bed and rest while you heal up this time. Then we're going to sit down and talk, okay? You saved my child today. I'm going to help you any way I can. Understand?"

Stiles shuddered and sobbed.

“There’s nothing you can do,” he whispered. “You’d never believe me, anyway.”

John tightened his hold around Stiles.

"I'll be the judge of that. You'd be surprised at the things I'm willing to believe."

  
  



	6. Home Will Always Find You

Being pumped full of drugs a second time was just as fun as the first time. Stiles was in and out of consciousness on the ride there and only vaguely remembered bits and pieces that came after. He thought he woke up several times, a cry strangling his throat and dreams drowning his lungs. Someone laid a hand on his forehead and murmured words that slipped away like sand.

When Stiles came awake properly next it was daylight. He squinted against the bright intrusion and took stock of himself before attempting to move. He was still drugged pretty good. He hurt but not in a sharp way, more dull and aching. Stiles's hand drifted down to his side and found thick bandages covering the wounds.

Stiles let his head turn to the right. He frowned and squinted at a potted plant and two very big, homemade cards. The closest one had a crude drawing of stick figures locked in combat, one with glowing blue eyes and long black claws. The chicken scratch above it said, _Thanks for fighting the meth head!_ Only 'meth head' was scrawled above something that had been crossed out and looked suspiciously like 'werewolf'.

"My son can't draw for anything but his heart is in the right place. You made a big impression on him and Scott."

Stiles was too hazy to even startle. He turned his head to the other side and John came into view. He was in one of the chairs, leaning back in a comfortable sprawl that only came from spending a lot of time in hospital chairs.

"Hi." 

It wasn't the most intelligent thing Stiles had ever come up with. He'd have to work on that.

John graced him with a gentle smile. Stiles liked that so much better than the look's he'd gotten wearing the mask. "It's good to see you back in the land of the living."

Stiles nodded.

John picked up a cup with a straw. "Thirsty?" And held it for Stiles to take a few sips. "How are you feeling?"

"Like...bruised sparkles."

"Bruised sparkles." John made a choked off noise.

"Yeah. Bruised and hurty. But shiny."

"Bruised sparkles. That's a new one."

"What happens to me now?" Stiles asked. He didn't want to stay in the hospital bed. Hospitals rarely held good things.

"Right now you are going to keep resting. The doctor wants to keep you until tomorrow to make sure you don't develop an infection. You lost a lot of blood and they had a hell of a time stitching you up. They said they couldn't do anything about the scarring."

Stiles hummed. Another set didn't make much difference to him. John's eyes narrowed.

"They were also worried about the numerous other injuries you had that were still healing. The cut on your arm, for example. There was an infection established they had to deal with. That could have turned gangrenous if it had been left longer."

Stiles blanched.

“I cleaned that out, I swear. Not stupid. No telling what was on that carjacker’s knife.”

“So that was you in the parking lot.”

Stiles stared in confusion and then dawning horror. Shit. Shitshitshit _shit_. John’s hand was suddenly in his.

“Breathe, Jimmy. Just breathe.”

“I can’t, I-- You weren’t supposed to know!”

“Why? What possessed you to do something like that?”

Stiles made an incredulous face. “Are you kidding? What other choice was there? I had to do something to protect you.”

“Why is it your job to protect me? Is this because I helped you the last time you were in the hospital?”

Stiles slapped his other hand over his mouth and shook his head. John, exasperated, started to speak, stopped, then tried again.

“Jimmy, please. Help me understand.”

Stiles dropped his hand and blinked back a sudden onslaught of tears. “I can’t. You won’t believe me and there’s no point in trying. I don’t belong here. I don’t belong anywhere. But I can still make a difference. I can still do something good. I swear I can.”

God damned, stupid fucking painkillers. All of Stiles’s barriers were gone. Poof. Done. Some part of him thought this was probably John’s plan all along and hated him for how sneaky that was, and how much like Dad.

"You said you lost everyone by being useless. That's why you became the Shadow? To atone for something?"

"For the record, I did not come up with that name. That is so lame."

"Noted.” John waited. "So why did you?"

"I had to help."

John squeezed his hand.

"Son, someone has to be missing you. Where is your family? Let me find them for you."

Stiles dropped back into bed, misery like fever under his ribs. 

"They died. They died badly because of me."

Stiles drifted after that. He wasn’t sure what all he said during that time. The topics drifted with him. Some of it was about the cases Stiles helped them close. Other times Stiles was certain they repeated a conversation about the potted plant younger Stiles dug up from the yard to send to the hospital. Neither of them were sure what the plant was.

“It’s probably not poisonous,” John said, dubious.

Then he woke up and younger Scott was sitting beside the bed working on homework. For a moment Stiles forgot where he was, forgot when he was. He forgot his Scott was gone. For one blissful moment, everything was okay in the world. Then reality donned on him.

He must have made a noise because younger Scott looked up.

"Hey, you're awake! I'm keeping you company so Mr. Stilinski can take care of some paperwork." Scott peered at Stiles expecting him to say something. "The doctors said you would be able to leave later today."

Stiles runs a hand over his face and the weight of memory crashed down on him. He tried to hide it but it was Scott. Scott before Allison noticed almost everything.

"Are you hurting?" Scott placed a hand, so damn small, on Stiles's arm. Scott wasn’t a werewolf, he couldn’t take the pain, but he’d always known that Stiles needed touch to ground him. Hot tears stung at Stiles's eyes and he turned away, desperate to keep them from falling. Stupid, stupid drugs. "It's okay to cry when it hurts. Mom says so. It helps get the pain out."

Stiles's Scott said something like that once. Stiles sniffed and patted younger Scott's hand.

"I'm fine. Thanks. I just... I miss someone."

Scott bit his lip and looked over at the closed door before he whispered, "You had someone named Scott. Is that who you miss?" Stiles must look panicked because Scott plowed on. "You were talking in your sleep. You kept apologizing to him."

Stiles exhaled hard. Of course he did. All he could do anymore was apologize too late.

"I got him killed."

Scott pursed his lips. "What happened?"

Stiles waved his other arm in a dismissive gesture.

"What usually happened. I made a mistake and he tried to save my ass. I was supposed to be smart but I got tired. I didn't take precautions. Trusted someone who had another agenda and ended up... In a bad way. Scott tried to get me out. Normally he pulled through but the plan didn't work." Stiles closed his eyes against the memory of Scott's roar, how it shook the tunnels, how hope had bloomed in Stiles's chest, only to die moments later when that roar cut off and went silent. "Scott died. Everyone did."

Younger Scott's hand slipped down into Stiles's and squeezed it tight. Stiles was ashamed that he held back so tight.

"He sounds like he was a good friend."

"Better than I deserved."

Stiles knew he shouldn't be laying all this on Scott. This Scott was nine years old. He had _asthma_ , for crying out loud. But Stiles had never been that good of a person and he wanted Scott back, even if it was the wrong one for a few, precious moments.

Scott dropped his hand and Stiles blanked at the absence until he got an armful of Scott, who had climbed up on the hospital bed and proceeded to hug Stiles. And Stiles was weak. He ignored the pressure on his side and hugged him back.

"Your Scott wouldn't want you to think that about yourself," Scott said. "If you were best friends I don't think he would blame you. Scotts generally forgive their Stiles's pretty easy."

Stiles froze. Scott pulled away after a moment. "I'm right, aren't I? You're a Stiles. Not mine, but like from another dimension or time travel or something?"

"What?"

Scott grinned and tapped Stiles's cheek. "All your moles are the same. And your eyes. And other things." Scott's grin faded to a sad one. "My Stiles doesn't think good things about himself, either."

Stiles was going to set a new record for the number of panic attacks if he wasn’t careful. After a few careful breaths, he said, "I thought you were supposed to be the logical one. Other dimensions and time travel aren't the first explanation anyone thinks about." Well, no one but Stiles, usually.

Scott rolled his eyes. "You fought off a werewolf in the woods. It's not that big of a leap."

Huh.

"Does your Stiles know?"

Scott shrugged. "Probably. We haven't talked about it because Mom made me go home and Mr. Stilinski got a babysitter and wouldn't let us sleepover. But he's a version of you, right? I bet he's had it figured since he called Mr. Stilinski to go help you. He was really worried. He wouldn't stop talking until his dad promised to search until he found you."

Stiles had no idea what to say about that but Scott, bless him, didn’t expect him to. He climbed off the bed, scooted his chair closer, and angled the book so Stiles could see it. 

"Since you're awake can you help me with the vocabulary? I have a test tomorrow and I told Mom I studied but I haven't yet."

What the hell. It wasn’t like there was a way to make his current circumstance any less weird.

"Sure."

Scott beamed and handed the book to Stiles.

~

Stiles was discharged later that evening. Scott had gone home by then and John swung by to pick him up. John brought him some of his sweatpants and an old shirt. They were both a bit big but weren’t stiff with blood and gore so that was a plus.

Stiles tapped out a nervous rhythm on his leg as John finished the last of the paperwork. So far CPS had not descended on them. Stiles kept waiting for everything to turn sideways again. To give him a reason to run. Or try to hobble away at a mildly increased speed.

“Where to?” Stiles asked as they walked out of the hospital. The stitches pulled at his wound with every step. Maybe he wouldn’t hobble very far after all. John led him to the cruiser and opened the front passenger door so Stiles could maneuver in.

Well, at least it was the front instead of the back. That had to be a good sign.

"I think it's time you level with me so I can figure out how to help you. So, we'll get some burgers and talk. You could use some calories."

The retort about John’s health was on the tip of Stiles's tongue but he bit it back. John was probably healthier than Stiles at that point. 

John took them to a drive-through diner Stiles didn’t know and ordered a couple of meals. Then he took them to the park. They ate under an old oak tree. It was the best meal Stiles had had in recent memory. Warm, greasy, and next to his dad. The dad that's wasn't his dad.

"All right, Jimmy." John balled up the burger wrappers and put them in the empty sack. "When you're ready."

Stiles fiddled with a hole in the hem of his shirt. Scott had blindsided him earlier with his casual revelation and hadn’t asked for more information. Of course, it was Scott, who figured he would get it all out of Stiles eventually without a fight because he mastered the puppy eyes maneuver before he ever turned wolfy. John wasn’t so patient. He couldn’t afford to be and Stiles understood that.

He’d been going through this in his head for hours now. What to tell John? He could always make something up. Fabricate a lie with plausible parts but it wouldn’t be complete and John would sense the holes. He always did even when he didn’t want to believe they were there.

And Stiles was tired. Exhausted, really. Anything he fabricated would be half-hearted at best. So, against his better judgment and all his lists, Stiles told the truth.

"I'm not from this world," he said because a cold start was probably best. Rip off the bandaid before he got too scared. "I am from Beacon Hills, though. Born and raised. But a lot of bad supernatural stuff went wrong in mine. It started with the Hale fire."

Stiles talked and did that thing where he looked out the window instead of at John and imagined himself outside his body. He pretended he was alone. Talking to himself or the ghosts of his pack, rehashing past events as he did so often to examine how and when things went wrong. Twenty-twenty vision and all that. If he didn’t have to see John’s expression then he could get it all out, he reasoned.

Stiles spilled everything. Even the painful bits. Especially the bits that were his fault in entirety. He choked up several times and John wordlessly handed him a bottled water. John never spoke, never interrupted. He made a noise once or twice, when Stiles laid out being a sacrifice or when the ghost riders erased him, but that was it. Stiles tried to keep everything as connected and relevant as possible. It was harder than it sounded, given just how much had happened in such a short time span.

By the time he got through the collapse of Beacon Hills, the months of running on the road, and up to his capture by the hunters the light in the sky had gone golden and soft. Stiles’s voice petered out as he tried to find the rest of the words. John had wanted the truth and Stiles would give him the whole thing. But he wanted to curl up and fade away. Every bit of him stung like an exposed nerve. Stiles was too much of a coward to turn around and see what effect it’d had on John.

"Deaton was possessed. I’m not sure how long. He was always too slippery to pin down but he'd disappeared right before Beacon Hills went the way of the dinosaurs. We thought he might have died with the first or second wave. Then he made contact when we were laying low in Washington. Everyone was worn ragged. No sleep, little to eat. I figured I'd give everyone a chance to rest and went out to meet Deaton on my own."

Bile threatened to rise in Stiles's throat. He hadn't even noticed the odd, jerky movements at first, and played down the sense of wrongness emanating from Deaton. He'd never seen eye to eye with the veterinarian but Stiles had been happy to see another survivor. Someone from home.

"Deaton neutralized me. Handed me off to a group of hunters that were controlling the thing possessing him. I ended up in a cage, bound and gagged.” Stiles clenched his hands. The thick scars on his wrists felt like brands. Ugly things that drew the eye to the twisted and discolored tissue. “They had me for a little over a month before the pack tracked us down. They tried to rescue me. They didn't account for how many hunters there would be."

Stiles hesitated but then he lifted his shirt. He touched the darkened starburst on his side. 

“Before we had to run Deaton insisted I get some tattoos. Normally, dad was against tattoos and I was fully against needles but we both agreed I needed something to channel my magic through at the time. To keep me safe. So he did a few for that purpose and then he told you about this one. Deaton said this spell was a one time get out of jail free type thing. If it was activated I would be transported somewhere safe. You--my dad agreed to it.”

Now came the hard part. The last of it. Stiles breathed through his nausea and drank some more water. 

“I couldn’t activate it when I was in the cage. The hunters kept me weak and disoriented. Kept my hands tied and up in the air. When the pack came… Dad got to me first. I thought we were gonna make it. Never saw the hunter who shot him in the back. The others--no one was left. And dad was dying and he--”

Stiles gestured to the burn and found himself crying. He still felt Dad's hands, slick with his own blood, press Stiles's numb hand to the tattoo. Made him recite the words, made him promise to live.

“Your dad sent you here.” 

"I wish he hadn't," Stiles confessed. "I wasn't supposed to be the last one standing. And it was all my fault. I wish he'd just let me stay."

_I wish I could have died with my pack._

John enveloped Stiles in a hug and Stiles buries his face in John’s shirt. It was an awkward angle and it pulled on on his wound, but Stiles couldn’t let go. 

"Your dad loved you," John said, cupping the back of Stiles's head. "He loved you and wanted you safe. He didn't blame you for anything. None of that was your fault."

"I should have--"

"No." Dad gripped the back of his neck. "You are not to blame for everything that goes wrong. You're not to blame for trusting someone you saw as an authority figure. There was no way you could have known. You should have brought back up, given the circumstances, but you couldn't have known. Your dad didn't blame you for that."

Stiles choked on a sob.

"And you definitely should have come to me when you got here," he continued. John ran his thumb along the underside of Stiles's head. It was painful how comforting the same gesture was. "But I get why you didn't. You were trying to protect me. Protect us. But I know now and I'm here. It's my turn to protect you."

"You already have a son who needs you." Stiles couldn’t do that. Couldn’t encroach on his younger self’s home and life and take his dad’s attention away. There were already enough things in their lives doing that. Stiles had had his dad and lost him. It wouldn’t be fair to ask this Stiles to give his up.

John drew away with a stern look despite his wet eyes.

"I think my heart is big enough to love two, Stiles."

John held him for a while longer until Stiles pulled away. He passed Stiles a handful of napkins to clean up.

"How are you even going to explain me?" Stiles asked when his voice was steady. "I didn't exactly bring over any paperwork." Not that it would have helped.

"I have an idea about that. We'll get that sorted soon. Now I think it's time you show me where you were staying. We'll get whatever stuff you need and go home. Then you are going to get some more rest."

So no CPS. Stiles sagged in relief. 

Stiles directed John to the loft and deactivated the wards to allow him in. John’s pinched expression at the state of the abandoned building didn’t escape Stiles’s notice, so he bustled on ahead, skirting the middle of the room and went to his living corner. He had upgraded the yoga mats to an air mattress early on but he ducked his head and hoped John wouldn’t say anything. He knew it looked awful even with as tidy and organized as he kept it. Stiles had thought the same thing when it was Derek living here, bare minimum everything.

Stiles stuffed his backpack with clothes, his magic supplies, and the charms in various stages of completion. With a glance over his shoulder, Stiles realized that John had wandered into Isaac’s old room to examine the crime board. That caused an all-new spike of anxiety in him, but Stiles used the distraction to pack his cash reserve. That would warrant even more scrutiny if John saw it. Everything else could wait or be left. 

"Sometime later we're going to have a deep discussion about this vigilante business you started," John said, eyeing the sheer amount of research Stiles had accumulated. "Because while you did good work, it stops now."

Stiles opened his mouth to argue. John waved his finger.

"No buts. You're not alone anymore and you don't need to keep atoning for something that wasn't your fault to begin with."

Stiles's mouth closed with a click. John took the bag from Stiles.

"We'll come sort through the rest later after you've had a while to recoup, okay?"

"Okay."

John smiled and wrapped an arm around Stiles’s shoulders as they went back down the stairs. He leaned into the touch and soaked up the warmth and committed it to memory.

~

Moving into the house was weird.

Younger Stiles was there to greet them almost vibrating with excitement. He launched into a stream of questions and answers that John nearly managed to keep up with while they get inside and John directed Stiles firmly to the couch. The babysitter leaned against the entrance to the kitchen with a contemplative look.

"Laura, this is Jimmy. Jimmy, this is Laura Hale, Stiles's babysitter. She's a--"

"Werewolf."

Stiles knew he's staring but Laura strode over and offered her hand and they shook. She gave him an appraising once over.

"Lots of rumors going on about you," Laura says. There was a mischievous gleam in her eyes that Stiles was a little scared of, the same kind Lydia and Erica used to have.

Stiles glanced at John. “Rumors?”

“Oh, yeah,” Laura answered. “Beacon Hills’ own vigilante. You had my older brother Shawn going nuts over the crime scenes.”

“Shawn?”

John answered. “My partner. Shawn Hale.”

Stiles had never bothered to learn his partner's name. The man obviously wasn't Dean Tyler, his Dad's old partner, so Stiles had chalked it up to another alternate world difference. Stiles was highly disappointed in himself for casually ignoring that for literal months.

“So that’s how you know about werewolves.”

John shrugged. “Yes and no. Shawn’s human. Joined the department last year after an incident between hunters and the Hale pack. The sheriff is in the know, too. We all agreed it would be best if a few people in the department knew about the other side of things in case something similar happened again.”

Misery and regret gouged Stiles on the inside but he pushed it away and turned to Laura. “So what kind of rumors were there? Any of them good?”

“Maybe. There are a couple bets going on as to the truth, but so far Mr. Stilinski has been keeping what he knows close to the vest.” Laura poked at John.

“You know the rules. I’ll be informing your mother first. If she sees fit to tell you then she will.”

“Pfft, of course she will. I’m the alpha-in-training. Besides, I have money riding on this, too.”

Younger Stiles rolled his eyes and stage whispered, "She thinks you're an alien!"

"Quiet, brat." Laura swatted at younger Stiles who dodged and stuck out his tongue.

“An alien? Really?”

“Yeah. Nana May and I saw someone fall out of the sky the same day you turned up here. And humans can’t fly, magic or not. Unless you’d like to clear up my misconception.”

Laura batted her eyes. Stiles marveled at the surrealism of the situation. 

“I think that would be cheating, wouldn’t it?”

"It's a better theory than Derek's. _He_ bet that you are some kind of chaos magician who is responsible for the weird smells coming out of the woods lately."

Stiles barks out a surprised laugh. "I figured Derek would have a more reality-based theory."

Laura gave him a look. "You know Derek?"

Stiles's mouth worked and he tried to figure out something to say that would make any kind of sense. Then he just shrugged.

"Spoilers."

Younger Stiles cackled. "You're both wrong and you can tell Derek to get his nose checked. The weird smells are all the meth labs."

Laura rolled her eyes. "There aren't that many meth labs out there."

"Says the girl who's gonna lose the bet."

Laura ignored him. "Okay, so you're not an alien. Are you psychic?"

Stiles turns to his younger self. Counterpart? He needed to come up with a better moniker. "You didn't tell her anything?"

"Pfft. She's tried to get it out of me but she isn't willing to meet my price yet. I give it a couple more days."

John raised an eyebrow. "What have I said about extorting your babysitters, Stiles?"

"Um, aim higher than what you want so when they negotiate you down you don't undercut yourself?" He threw in a wide attempt at an innocent smile.

John pinched the bridge of his nose. Laura snorted.

"I think that's my cue to leave. Stiles, you still have homework that you avoided so you could tease me about knowing the big secret."

"Laura!"

She smiled at younger Stiles and patted him on the head. Then she was in front of older Stiles, hands on her hips, a sheer force of presence without even trying. If she wanted to Laura could have filled the entire house with her energy until the walls broke apart under the strain.

The Derek Stiles first met was beginning to make so much horrible, sad sense now. Stiles had to swallow it down or it would reopen the dams he'd already emptied all over John.

"And you, Jimmy. I'm gonna figure you out and I'll do it before Derek. Before Shawn, too, because I am just that good.”

Stiles believed her. The way she stared him down like a half a challenge and half something else, Stiles got the feeling she put all her energy to use being tenacious and thorough. A force of nature. Derek's world must have been so achingly empty after she died.

"Good luck with that."

Stiles felt a little traitorous that he was getting Laura this way but Derek had been right. Laura, even an alternate universe Laura, was something else. Something special.

Then it was just the three of them. Stiles wasn't sure what to do with himself and ended up fidgeting.

"Okay, Stiles. You apparently have homework to do so you're going to work on that down here. Jimmy, you need all the rest you can get. We've cleared out the guest room upstairs."

Before they returned, John talked to him about keeping Jimmy as a name. Stiles didn't mind. He was still Stiles but he couldn't be that to everyone else. It would take some getting used to.

"I'll show him!" younger Stiles grabbed his hand and waited for Stiles to leverage himself up.

"Five minutes, Stiles. Then you better be down here with your homework."

"Ugh, _Dad_."

"Oh, before I forget." Dad left and came back with a few pills and some water. "Pain meds and antibiotics."

"The pain isn't that bad." The last batch was almost out of his system. And the pain wasn't great but it was manageable. Just the right side of agony to keep his mind sharp.

John gave him a flat look. "You're taking them. Besides." John glanced down to younger Stiles with an expression that did not bode well. "Seeing as you're the oldest you have the responsibility of setting a good example. Good examples who need medicine take it properly and on time just as the doctor prescribes."

Stiles's jaw dropped as that sunk in.

"That's manipulation. And evil."

John held out the pills with a shit-eating grin.

"No, son, that's good parenting."

~

The guest room smelled a bit like dust and faint mothballs but it was clean and the bed has been made up fresh. Stiles couldn’t remember the last actual bed he’d slept in. The hospital ones didn’t count.

"There's even batman sheets," younger Stiles says with pride, lifting the heavy comforter to show him. 

Stiles appreciated the touch and said so. They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. Stiles realized this is the first time he's been alone with his younger self. It was a bit disconcerting. He hadn't thought much about it when he followed them into the woods or after the altercation with the rogue omega. There hadn’t been time.

John’s words came back to Stiles. How the hell was he supposed to be a good example for a kid who was basically him stripped of PTSD trauma, entrenched supernatural paranoia, and highly questionable methods of self-preservation? He made a note to tell John that Stiles should not be allowed to babysit his younger self. The house would end up on fire for sure.

"So. You're me then." Younger Stiles looked him up and down. "I thought I'd be taller."

Stiles huffed. "Yeah, believe me, so did I."

Younger Stiles chewed on his bottom lip for a minute before he blurted out, "Are you from my future?"

Stiles settled himself on the bed. His head was getting that drugged, woozy feeling, but he understood the hint of panic in his younger self’s question. Stiles had taken time to look at himself in the mirror in the hospital when he was alone. He looked...unhealthy. Too thin and ragged and torn up, like a discarded dog’s chew toy. There was a wild look in Stiles’s eyes that never went away, that betrayed a frantic desire to strike out and whatever was near and turn tail and run. The same look Malia always had.

Stiles had avoided looking at himself up until that point. His eyes always slid away from his reflection, blocked out any reaction to what he did see. Stiles barely held onto the threads of his sanity on a good day without that sort of forced self-reflection. Besides, it was easier to pretend he was fine if he couldn't see he wasn't.

"No, you don't have to worry about that. This isn't my past."

"Alternate dimension, then?"

"It would seem so."

"Where I'm a wizard who fights werewolves off with knives." Stiles cut him a look. Younger Stiles shrugged. "Dad isn't as sneaky on the phone as he thinks he is. I heard him talking to someone about your magic tattoos. Dude. We _hate_ needles."

“Trust me, we still do. And I’m not a wizard. The proper term is spark.”

Stiles held out his hand and snapped his fingers. A glowy ball of light appeared and hovered above his thumb. It wasn’t much, just a child’s trick. The first one he learned to master from Deaton after the mountain ash circle so he could get the hang of channeling magic through his tattoos.

Younger Stiles’s eyebrows shot up and his mouth dropped.

"Whoa. Is it like fire?"

Stiles flexed his fingers. The ball of light drifted over his knuckles like that coin trick he tried to master the year he turned seven.

"No, just light and shadow. Magic is a lot of different things. This is one of the prettier things it can be." He held it out and younger Stiles poked it. The light parted around his finger. Younger Stiles crowed with laughter and awe.

"Can you make it change colors?"

Eventually, John hollered up the stairs for younger Stiles to come down and do his homework. Stiles settled back on the guest bed, toed his shoes off but didn’t bother undressing or getting under the covers. Everything still felt wrong, like the world took another jog to the left. Stiles rubbed at his sore eyes and blew out an irritated breath.

He missed his dad so fiercely his body wanted to shatter itself apart but he had a dad-- he had John downstairs, who patiently went through vocabulary quizzes with his real son, John who hugged Stiles and made space for him and said he loved him.

Stiles wanted to grieve for versions of people who were still breathing but didn't know him. He wanted to mourn friendships that shaped and defined him and now belonged to a mini version of Stiles who would never walk the same path he had. Stiles curled in on himself as much as his side would allow. He didn't cry but he shook and shivered and let the drugs take him under.

~

Christmas was a surreal affair. John usually worked but, after everything, the sheriff had insisted he take a few days off. That was how Stiles found himself in the grocery store with John and Mini-Stiles. Stiles liked the moniker. It felt more natural than ‘younger Stiles’ but wasn’t as insulting as little Stiles. 

The bright fluorescent lights were harsh to Stiles's eyes and the basket had an odd squeaky wheel. Mini-Stiles darted in front of the basket from one side of the aisle to the other, pointing at things he thought would be cool to try between babbling about what Scott and Melissa were having and could they try enchiladas?

"I'm not that talented in the kitchen, Stiles," John said as he added a couple of cans of green beans to their pile.

"I can cook," Stiles found himself volunteering. Two sets of eyes swiveled to him. "I've never done enchiladas but I can make casseroles and stuff." 

"Huh," John said, eyes narrowed in thought.

Stiles rolled his eyes. "Someone had to watch your cholesterol. I learned from Mrs. Bulleski." The name didn't appear to register with either of them. Apparently, the old librarian had never been a neighbor.

"Hey, I'll have you know my health is just fine as of my last check-up. You, on the other hand, need to put on some more weight." John poked him with a pointed look.

John had steadily made it his mission to get Stiles to eat a little more with his meals every day. He couldn't finish it all but John was happy as long as Stiles tried. Stiles hadn't thought he was too bad off until John stood him in front of the mirror and made him look. "I can count your ribs without trying, kid," he had said, low and firm, locking eyes with Stiles in the mirror. "There will never be a food shortage in this house, so work with me on this." So Stiles did. It was hard, changing his mindset, his habits. Sometimes he just forgot because he'd spent more time working on minimal food and energy than not. But John always looked happy when he managed a few more bites so maybe it was worth it.

"That's what the holidays are for," Mini-Stiles declared and added a bag of marshmallows to the basket. John let them stay.

"All right, now we need a pie. What kind do we want?" John asked, checking off a few more items.

"Ooh, can we do chocolate?" Mini-Stiles asks.

John looked to Stiles who shrugged. "Can't go wrong with chocolate."

"Chocolate it is. Why don't you go pick that out of the freezer section and I'll meet you by the bread."

The freezer section had three different types of chocolate pie and Stiles debated which brand was superior with Mini-Stiles. 

A sharp intake of breath startled Stiles. He glanced back and Mr. Lahey was behind them, a handbasket clutched in white knuckles.

“I knew it,” Lahey said, eyes narrowed to slits. “I don’t know what you did to your face but I _knew_ it was your voice.”

Stiles moved in front of his younger self and squared his shoulders, one hand on Mini-Stiles's arm in warning not to move.

"Mr. Lahey."

Lahey snarled and stepped forward. Stiles raised his hand, fingers poised to snap, and Lahey flinched.

"I wouldn't if I were you." Stiles's voice was cold to his own ears. "It would be a shame if you started seizing all over the linoleum. What number are you on now?"

"I'm getting Dad." 

Mini-Stiles darted away, shoes squeaking as he disappeared around the corner. Stiles never took his eyes off Mr. Lahey.

"You." Lahey pointed a shaking finger at Stiles's face. "You ruined my life."

"Pretty sure you were doing a good job of that on your own. At least now you're not ruining your son's as well. How is Isaac, by the way? I assume you've been behaving for the most part. You're still alive, at any rate."

Lahey went pale with rage. "I don't even _have_ my son anymore. I had to send him away to his aunt after what you did."

Stiles felt a pang of relief mixed with a bit of loss. He would have to check up on the aunt but, well. He wasn't around his dad anymore. That wasn't the outcome Stiles had sought but it was probably better in the long run.

"I don't know what you are," Lahey continued. "Or what you did to me but I will make you regret it."

"Bigger and meaner things than you have tried," Stiles said. "I put all of them in the ground one way or another. You're nothing but an ordinary, weak-willed coward who beats on his son and thinks that makes him a man."

Lahey balled up his fist like he was gonna swing anyway, consequences are damned.

" _Hey_ , everything okay here?"

John fit himself between Stiles and Lahey. He was out of uniform but Lahey flinched back and recognition flitted across his face. Stiles didn't blink as he gazed at Mr. Lahey over John’s shoulder.

"Just fine, deputy." Lahey shot Stiles a poisonous glare.

"Good. Jimmy, we're checking out."

John gripped his shoulder with a firm hand and led him to the checkout counter. John didn't say anything but the tight, controlled motions as he paid and then loaded the groceries into the car said he'd heard more than Stiles would have liked. When they got home John waved him off of unloading.

"No lifting for you. Go upstairs and wait in your room. I'll be up to talk to you in a minute."

His tone booked no arguments. Stiles bit his cheek and obeyed. His gut squirmed as he climbed the stairs but he wasn't sorry. He was worried, though. He hadn't told John what he'd done about Lahey. Not in so many words.

Or at all.

Sick anticipation made each minute an eternity. Stiles sat on the bed, leg bouncing, heart in his throat. John's heavy tread ascended the stairs finally and Stiles braced himself. 

"What was that about? Mr. Lahey looked ready to take your head off."

John closed the door behind him and sat beside Stiles on the bed.

"There was never any danger of that."

John glared. "Stiles."

Stiles looked away. "He's pissed because I used magic on him to protect his son. He's Isaac's dad."

John frowned, thinking.

"Isaac as in the werewolf you knew. The one you said was a dick?"

Stiles made a face.

"Yes, okay, he was a dick in the beginning when he wolfed up and went on a power trip. But before that, his dad beat on him and locked him in a chest freezer in their basement for _years_ to punish him. So I did something about it this time."

A combination of emotions flickered over John's face. "Stiles, what did you do?"

"Gave him a taste of his own medicine. Magically speaking." 

John raises his eyebrows, waiting. Stiles breathed out a harsh sigh and explained the spell and the triggers he put on Lahey to essentially train him out of abusing his ten-year-old son. 

"I am not apologizing for what I did," Stiles ended, arms crossed tight across his chest as he glared at the carpet. He and Isaac had never been good friends but, over time, the bond of the pack and regular death-defying situations gave them strong mutual respect. 

Isaac had still been sort of a dick, but so had Stiles. It had evened out.

John huffed his own heavy sigh and drew him into an unexpected side hug.

"You are definitely my son." 

Stiles risked a glance at John. He looked sad, exasperated, tired. Just the way his own dad looked as things began to get out of control.

"Will he really end up with an aneurysm?"

Stiles shrank back. "Of course not! I wanted him to stop being an abusive prick, not kill him. I just told him it would."

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Stiles chewed on his lip.

"It feels like there should be a law against using magic against people like that."

Stiles glanced away. There probably was within the coven but Stiles never formally joined and his actions didn't affect the coven or its circle of secrecy. They probably wouldn't be thrilled with him if they found out, though, so Stiles wisely said nothing.

"But I get it. I do, given everything you’ve already told me. I don't agree with the method you used though, which is why you will not use your magic like that ever again. No," John held his hand up as Stiles opened his mouth to protest. "No. There are ways to deal with this kind of thing that doesn’t trample over the law and constitutional rights. _Which I have to uphold._ So from now on, you come to me and we'll figure out a plan of action. Agreed?"

Stiles thought it over.

"What if it's a life and death situation?"

John pursed his lips.

"If it's that kind of a situation I expect you to do what you can _in self-defense_ and then come and find me so I can handle it."

"What if it's not a situation you can handle as a deputy?"

"Then you still find me and we'll find someone else who can handle it. I'm serious, Stiles. It's one thing to protect yourself from a dangerous situation as it happens. It's entirely different to become a judge, jury, and executioner." John squeezed his shoulder. "You're not alone anymore. It's not your job to confront and solve every problem you come across."

John’s words made sense. Stiles knew that it did and part of him sagged in relief to know that he wasn't supposed to be responsible for all the problems. Another, more vicious and cynical, part of Stiles balked because he had the means to do it himself and know it really was handled.

John held out his hand.

"I want your word on this."

Stiles's heart stuttered. His dad had extracted promises from him that Stiles never kept all the time but this dad was different. He seemed to anticipate Stiles in a way his dad had been denied by the simple virtue of long term ignorance. More than that, Stiles realized he couldn’t repeat the same mistakes he made the first time. Losing his dad’s trust was a hurt that had never really healed. Not completely. Stiles didn’t want to go through that again. To see the guarded expression as dad internally debated on how much Stiles said was bullshit or to be dismissed out of hand because what he said was too crazy. And how it still cropped up after he knew everything, how he always had that doubt about Stiles.

Staying away hadn’t worked. Lying hadn't worked. Stiles had to do better this time. 

He shook John’s hand.

"You have my word."

"Thank you." John hung on for a few more seconds before he broke the handshake. Then ruffled Stiles's shaggy mess of hair. "Let's go down and get stuff ready or else there's no telling what Stiles will get into."

"Probably the marshmallows."

John winced. "Oh, god."

~

Christmas arrived and brought with it a whole slew of emotions Stiles was not prepared for. Mini-Stiles was up before dawn bouncing off the walls. Sometimes literally. Stiles startled awake when he barrelled up and down the hall singing Jingle Bells at the top of his lungs followed by irregular bangs and hisses of "Ouch!"

A garbled growl of, "Too early, Stiles!" came from the direction of John's room.

"IT'S NEVER TOO EARLY FOR PRESENTS," Mini-Stiles yelled. "STOP BEING SUCH AN ADULT."

Stiles snorted to himself and rubbed at his chest to calm his racing heart. A few stomps and muffled curses later his door opened. John’s hair was a massive cowlick and his eyes were mere slits. He pointed an accusing finger at Stiles.

"If I have to be up, so do you."

Stiles snorted. "You are such a grumpy old man."

John was unimpressed. "Just for that no coffee for you."

"No, Dad, wait."

John waved him off and headed downstairs. Stiles was halfway down himself when he realized he had slipped up. John, however, hadn’t noticed. Stiles wasn’t sure if that was good or not so he didn’t say anything.

They all ended up on the couch, with coffee because John wasn't a monster, and Mini-Stiles sorted through the presents and handed them out. Stiles was more than a little surprised at the five he ended up with.

"These two are from dad, and this one is from me, and this one is from Scott, and this one was in the mailbox."

John's presents turned out to be a large sack of new clothing and a small box containing a new flip phone.

"I've already got numbers plugged in there," he said. "Keep it charged and keep it on you. I expect a call or a text within ten minutes if you miss a call from me. Otherwise, I will come looking for you."

Stiles itched his cheek to cover for wiping away a few tears. "You got it. Thank you."

"Mine next!"

Mini-Stiles shoved a messily wrapped package into his hands. The package was more tape than paper. Inside was a Harry Potter action figure. Stiles barked out a laugh. _A wizard for a wizard_ was scrawled across the box.

"Thanks, dude."

Mini-Stiles beamed.

Scott's present was three worn but cared for comic books that had Mini-Stiles impressed. 

"Those are his favorites."

Stiles's heart ached.

The last package was a manila envelope with their address and no postage stamp. Stiles opened it and pulled out a stack of papers.

His papers. Stiles thumbed through a new birth certificate, a social security card, and medical records, half of which were real. His name was listed as James Stiles Stilinski on all of them. John wasn't listed as his father, though. Gary Stilinski was. Stiles vaguely recollected the name. Dad had a brother he never talked to, there had been some kind of falling out. Stiles would have to get the story on that sometime.

"How did-- How did you manage this?"

"I know someone who owed me a favor," John said. He tapped the birth certificate. "I didn't want to take your name completely away. So you can keep going by Jimmy as a nickname or as Stiles and we'll figure out a moniker to differentiate between you two."

"I just call him mimi-me in my head," Stiles said, still in awe that John could have called in a favor like this.

Mini-Stiles wrinkled up his nose. "I'm not on board with that."

"Too late, it's already stuck."

Mini-Stiles squawked in protest. "Fine. Then you get to be Not-Tall-Enough-Stiles."

Stiles reached over and flicked Mini-Stile's ear who threw a wad of wrapping paper in retaliation.

John shook his head. "Too much of a mouthful."

After they cleared the wrapping paper away Mini-Stiles turned on the TV for the Christmas parade and Stiles headed to the kitchen with John to start cooking. The meal wasn't anything elaborate. John took care of the small pre-cooked turkey and Stiles put a green bean casserole together. Everything else could be heated up within a few minutes so it wasn't a lot of labor.

Halfway through opening the green bean cans Stiles's hands began to shake. Stiles wiggled his fingers to sort them out and tried again. He dropped the green bean can on the floor and it overturned. Beans and juice spilled across the cracked linoleum.

The panic came on so fast he wasn't prepared at all. John guided him into a chair and began to talk him down. Stiles did his best to listen and breathe. It took longer than normal and his insides were a vice squeezing down on his lungs. When it finally ended Stiles slumped over and pillowed his head on his arms.

"You with me, kiddo?" 

John rubbed a hand up and down Stiles's back. Stiles nodded without lifting his head.

"I should have expected this would be a difficult day for you, I'm sorry."

"I miss them all so much."

The last Christmas his dad had taken Stiles out to the diner and they’d had their traditional holiday meal while the jukebox played carols and the waitresses bobbed around with Santa hats on their heads. They had made plans to watch a movie together on his Dad’s next day off, just the two of them, with popcorn and veggie pizza. Stiles had hung out with Scott and the pack afterward, all of them sprawled at Derek’s in a food coma.

They never did get to do that movie night.

"It's okay that you do. I'd be worried if you didn't." John gave him a few more minutes before he nudged him up. "Go watch the parade and be a lazy teenager for a while. I got this."

John ruffled his hair as he left. Mini-Stiles was already sprawled like an octopus on the couch but he lifted his feet so Stiles could sit and immediately stuffed them under Stiles's thigh. They stayed there until the food was done and all of them ate until they were groaning. John fell asleep in the recliner and Stiles took mini-Stiles to the backyard and they threw a baseball around for a while. They stayed out until John woke up and called Stiles on his new phone, despite the fact he was watching them from the kitchen window.

That night Stiles sobbed into his pillow after John and Mini-Stiles went to sleep. He missed his real dad. He missed the pack. He hated that he was seeing a new Christmas, a new year, that they never would. And he hated how glad and grateful he was to have another dad down the hall who didn't have the same baggage he had loaded onto his own dad, who wasn't still rebuilding trust in him. It was the ultimate betrayal to his dad and everyone he ever loved and protected and bled for.

Eventually, he fell asleep. By some miracle, he didn't even dream. 

~

John went back to work on New Years so it was just Stiles and Mini-Stiles and Scott. Laura was away with her family so Stiles was in charge.

It was mildly terrifying. Stiles had laid out his worries and reservations before John left but John had shaken his had, squeezed Stiles shoulder, and said, “Relax, son. You’ve dealt with genuine monsters and human criminals. You can handle two nine-year-olds.”

John’s optimism was touching. And wholly missed the point.

It... didn't turn out as bad as Stiles feared. Mini-Stiles and Scott were still mostly in awe of Stiles, his magic, and the fact that he had tattoos. They wanted to see them but Stiles only pulled down his collar so they could look at the ones high on his back. He wasn’t comfortable taking his shirt off around them. It was bad enough with John. Stiles wasn’t ashamed, not really, but the haunted look John tried to disguise when he raked over the amount of damage Stiles sported hurt. 

It wasn’t John’s fault. Literally. But he was taking on guilt anyway and that wasn’t right. 

So Stiles kept his scars covered and talk of his world to a minimum. At least the bad parts. They had video games and World of Warcraft to play. There were movies to watch. With the power of teamwork, both Stiles's strong-armed Scott into watching Star Wars when Stiles revealed his Scott never did make time for it. The look of utter and complete disappointment Mini-Stiles leveled at Scott was a sight to behold.

They marathoned the original trilogy and then the prequels that were currently out because that was just a rite of passage, and Scott decided his favorite was Attack of the Clones.

Stiles took comfort in the fact that Scott in every universe was sort of hopeless.

He also kept his hands busy making spells. John had made him promise not to do anything like he’d done to Lahey but he hadn’t asked Stiles not to do magic at all. Which was good because Stiles wouldn’t have agreed to that. Magic was like any skill, it got rusty when you didn’t practice and Stiles’s high functioning anxiety would never let him give up something that could save their lives.

“Why are you sewing?” Mini-Stiles asked one afternoon. He and Scott had taken over the gaming system as soon as Scott walked in the door and hadn’t looked up once. “Those aren’t even torn.”

Stiles finished off the connection stitch on the inside of his jeans.

“It’s another kind of magic. The threads hold a spell in place for me and it’s like having an extra gas tank except it’s not fuel, it’s a spell that does something specific.”

“Like what?” Scott asked at the same time Mini-Stiles said, “You never said magic included embroidery!”

His words eerily echoed Stiles’s own reaction when he first started it.

“Hey, don’t knock sewing, Mini-Me,” Stiles said as he cut the thread. “Sewing isn’t just girl stuff. You can do all kinds of stuff with sewing.”

Stiles had only ever used it for magic and stitching skin, but he was well aware of how many other uses the skill had.

“So what does the spell do?” Scott asked again, elbowing Mini-Stiles when he scoffed.

“Well, this one I just did is going to store a focus charm.”

Stiles’s work could hardly be called embroidery. He couldn’t make elaborate patterns or anything. But he could do squiggles and small, simple patterns. The focus charm was a bullseye made of tiny blue x’s overall about three inches across. 

“You don’t take Adderall?” Mini-Stiles asked.

“I used to before I learned magic. Couldn’t get any more after a certain point, though, and I learned to make this spell to help with that. It’s not as potent some days but it’s better than nothing.”

“I thought you made necklaces and bracelets and stuff for charms,” said Scott.

Stiles, with John’s permission, had gone and supplied both boys with a number of charms he thought they would need. Like the Never-Lost spell on Scott’s inhalers. The boys had been occupied all afternoon when he finished them, hiding the inhalers in increasingly harder spots only to have the inhaler appear back in Scott’s pocket. Stiles wished he had thought of that spell for his knife before he lost it in the werewolf fight.

Stiles had also outfitted Mini-Stiles with a necklace that helped him remember to take his Adderall by giving off a soft chime noise. And a bracelet that acted as a homing beacon for Stiles should Mini-Stiles ever need help. Scott had an identical one. Stiles had made a Life Alert joke that fell flat. It was too early for that commercial, apparently.

“I keep a lot of spells on me and I cannot get away with wearing that much jewelry. It's not a look I can pull off."

“Are any of the spells for dangerous stuff?”

“I already told you I can’t throw fireballs or call down lightning.”

“What about for fighting?”

“I don’t need a spell to throw a punch.” He paused. “Not that I’m going to throw any punches. Not unless I have to.”

“Like if there’s another werewolf?”

“I’m not going to punch Laura. Pretty sure she’d kick my ass.”

Scott and Stiles both rolled their eyes. “Like the one in the woods.”

“If I meet another feral omega I think punching them would be about as helpful as using my knife had been. That didn’t work out so great.”

“Do the spells come out in the wash?” was Scott’s next question.

Stiles laughed. “No, dude, the thread anchors the spell. As long as the threads aren’t frayed enough to break the pattern then the magic stays put. If the thread breaks then the energy just disperses.”

“Can it be any kind of a pattern?” Mini-Stiles asked.

And that was how Stiles introduced both boys to the skill of sewing. By the time Scott left to go home, both of them had pricked their fingers multiple times and managed some shaky stitches on a couple of old towels. Stiles spent his energy charging the stitches he’d made and fell asleep on the couch after dinner.

That was where John found him and Mini-Stiles when he came home from his shift.

“I don’t even wanna know,” he said, taking in the needles, thread, and first attempts. “Come on, kiddo, time for bed. You have school tomorrow.”

Mini-Stiles groaned as John plucked him up from the couch and set him on his feet. John ruffled his buzz cut and gave him a push toward the stairs. John gestured at Stiles.

“You, too, big guy. We’re getting you registered for classes in the morning.”

Stiles woke up. “Why? I mean, I had pretty much graduated anyway.”

Slight exaggeration, but if the whole ghost riders thing hadn’t happened he would have. Not that graduation had even taken place after the riders left but he’d put in his time. Enough of it, anyway.

John held out his hand and pulled Stiles up off the couch.

“Remember what we talked about?”

Stiles squirmed a little. “Finding a new normal?” That had been one of the many, many conversations John insisted on having since he brought Stiles home.

“School is a big part of that. You need an education. One where you don’t have to worry about monsters killing your friends between classes and still keeping up your grades.”

Stiles had no words for how weird that sounded but it would be too sad to actually articulate aloud. Something must have shown on his face, though. John pulled him into a hug.

“You’re going to do fine. I’ll help you figure it out every step of the way.”

Stiles hugged back and decided, for the moment, to completely believe the first part. He already did the second part.

“Thanks, Dad.”

  
  



End file.
